


Six Times, Five Chems, and Two Soulmarks

by beetle



Series: . . . But the Fate We Make [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: AND lotsa smut, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Poly, Backstory a-plenty, But they get better, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Drugged Sex, Drugs, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Failboats In Love, Falling In Love, Feels, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Infatuated Kent Connolly, Jealous John, John DOES like getting his Vaultie off however, John is sweet AND salty, John isn't a Sadist, Kent Connolly/Male Sole Survivor one-sided, LUCKY Male Sole, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Major Character Injury, Male Sole is a Masochist, Male Sole is kinda nuts, Multi, Mutual Pining, Past-Nate/Nora, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, References to Drugs, Romance, Smut, Subspace, They're both in deep emotional burn-out, Timeline Shenanigans, mentions of shaun - Freeform, so much drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-07-01 16:53:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 61,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15778182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: It’s, “That 5 + 1-and-Soulmate Fic”!Or:Five times John and Nate get high (and fuck); one time they don’t get high (but still fuck), and one time Johndoesn’twonder about or eat his heart out over his Vaultie lover’s gauntlet-covered soulphrase. Because wondering? Is no longer relevant or necessary.COMPLETE! THANK YOU ALL for reading, kudoing, commenting, and sticking with it <3





	1. 1. PREAMBLE

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: Soulmates/soulmarks AU and 5+1—it’s two— **two** — **TWO!!!!** tropes in one. Drug use. SPOILERS. Consensual sex while both parties are under the influence. Also, if-you-squint dub-con, due to traumatized/panicked mental state. Mentions of canon and canon-consistent violence and murder, none of it graphic. Hopeful, happy ending.
> 
> “[Fear and Loathing in the Commonwealth: The Playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLlp-TNYE4qQUN3oVB1cGzWWFDRfscHCld).”
> 
> Inspired by [Are You Alright?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11251635) Just from the summary of that fic. But I HIGHLY advise that you read the fic, itself :-)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's a _mayor_. He can't be bothered about a damn _soulmark,_ or the person attached to it. And he _won't be,_ if he has his say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes/Warnings: MENTIONS OF RECREATIONAL DRUG USE. SPOILERS. Backstory.

After a decade as a ghoul, John Hancock’s stopped being so excited and bothered about a damned soulmark that ain’t even legible anymore.

 

In fact, he hadn’t been _at all_ bothered about it for years and years _before_ being ghoulified—couldn’t have given fewer fucks even if the Commonwealth had been in a givable fucks-drought.

 

 _In fact,_ if anyone had ever asked him since the inception of his ghoul-dom—which they hadn’t, unsurprisingly . . . even the open-minded and inner-beauty lovers had their limits—he’d have told them that. And more, besides, had they not already been moving speedily in _any_ other direction.

 

He’d have even told them his long-unseen—but never forgotten— _phrase_. The very _first_ thing one’s soulmate would say to one when _all_ the timing was right, and _all_ the feelings were exactly on lock. **_The_** True Love Realization Moment. . . .

 

It’d certainly been distinctive enough—quite the conundrum to little Ryan McDonough even before his Mama had finally told him what the words on his wrist meant. And _that_ hadn’t even happened until he could read well enough to puzzle out his phrase. When he’d finally thought to apply his hard-won reading-skills to the words that’d been on his wrist for as far back as he could remember, he’d edged up his slightly-loose gauntlet, mouthed the puzzle-able bits of the odd phrase to himself several times, very slowly, then frowned.

 

He’d then drifted out of the bathroom, toothpowder and brush still in his mouth, the latter half-hanging out. His father had been still at work, his mother had been in the kitchen scraping together another semi-filling, barely-sustaining meal for breakfast the next morning. Ryan’s big brother, Guy—eight years older than Ryan’s five—had been off no doubt organizing the neighborhood kids into factions and rivalries like a chess game.

 

And, within the next day or two, he would enjoy the all-out war that would erupt, then end in scrapes, bruises, and bloody noses. From a safe distance, of course.

 

Guy had always been what their Daddy would sighingly call a mastermind and _instigator_.

 

(As Ryan got a little older, he’d sometimes think: _S’at like an alligator? Because sometimes, when he thinks nobody’s looking, Guy smiles just like an alligator. Like he just wants to_ bite _everything he sees_.

 

Whatever kind of ‘gator _Mama_ had thought her eldest boy resembled, she’d kept to herself, behind pursed lips and a grim expression.)

 

Standing in the entryway to the small kitchen, wearing only the saggy blue shorts and t-shirt he slept in when it was warm, Ryan had still been frowning down at his now gauntlet-free left wrist.

 

“Mama . . . who’s _Johnny_ , and why’s he up so high?” he’d mumbled around his brush, spitting a little toothpowder-foam on his mostly-tan arm. His mother, weary and distracted, had turned to him, a loving smile on her face that had slowly morphed into superstitious shock as her eyes had darted from her son’s face to his pale, uncovered wrist. Then, _instantly_ back. Ryan had then beamed so big, the toothbrush nearly fell out of his mouth. “ _’DAMN’_! My wrist says ‘ _DAMN_ ,’ too! It says a swear!”

 

The evening after that had been rather startling and confusing. But by the time he’d gone to bed, still mostly full, Ryan Michael McDonough had learned a _bunch_ of new things.

 

 **Thing 1:** Every human being that’d ever been born, had been born with what was commonly called a “soulmark.” Which was actually, for most even in these post-War days, a soul _phrase_. Back in cavemen-times, before folk had writing, the marks had been just that: marks. And that’s what they were still mostly called, by folk who weren’t persnickety and snobbish.

 

 **Thing 2:** It’d never been a crime to go uncovered about the wrist, but folk’d long-since figured out that if _anyone_ could read a soulmark, then _anyone_ could claim to be someone’s soulmate simply by saying that phrase. For as far back as time, itself, most people covered their marks with gauntlets or other obscuring accessories or jewelry. Not just to prevent . . . soul-fraud (not illegal, even back pre-War, but _deeply_ frowned upon and liable to get a body violently driven out of a settlement or community for keeps) but because. . . .

 

 **Thing 3:** Soulmarks were considered _very_ personal and private . . . sacred, even. Even spouses frequently didn’t know what their other-half’s phrase was. And many didn’t want to. It was enough, Ryan’s mother had said, that phrase or not, their husband or wife or whoever, had chosen them and been content with that choice.

 

“Destiny and soulbondin’s all well and good, Junior. But me? I’d much rather have the person _I chose_ , rather than the person someone else chose _for me_ ,” Martha McDonough had murmured as she’d kissed her younger son good night. Her oldest had _still_ been out, despite the late hour and attendant dangers, as had her husband. But the latter, at least, had often worked double and triple shifts to keep them all afloat.

 

“Did you choose Daddy?” Ryan had asked, wide-eyed and without tact or guile. His Mama had smiled, kind and tired and fond.

 

“I did, indeed. And you wanna know something, kiddo?” Winking and smiling sly, she’d leaned in and given the tip of his nose a quick peck. “I choose him again at least once a day, _every_ day since the day we met. And I’ll never choose different, either.”

 

Ryan had beamed at his Mama and she’d beamed right back, brushing her soft, gentle fingertips down his cheek.

 

“You McDonough men are quite the charmers . . . when you wanna be,” she’d added, winking again, and Ryan had giggled. “Quick and clever and handsome as the day is long. But even more important: you’re kind and caring, strong and brave, _fierce and loyal_ about the people and things you believe in. That’s what a lotta girls’d call a _heartbreaker_.” Mama’s fingers had drifted away from Ryan’s cheek, to eventually tap his once-more-gauntled wrist. “If you _do_ ever meet your soulmate, she’ll be one lucky lady.”

 

Then, Ryan had frowned. “Can my soulmate be another boy?” he’d asked doubtfully, and his mother’s brows had lifted in question. “I like boys better, I think. For marryin’. I want my soulmate to be a boy,” Ryan had asserted, nodding. “And funny. And _nice_ , too. And _handsome_! And a real good shot!”

 

Smiling again, Mama had sighed big and gusty, rolling her wide, brown eyes. “Picky, picky, picky. Not a lotta boys like that, that don’t get grabbed-up real quick, Junior. So, _you_ gotta be quick when you _spot him_. I practically had to _murder_ half my friends to get close to _the_ Patrick McDonough, once he started flashin’ that McDonough-smile! So, you _get_ that boy, even if you have to wrestle him down and truss him up like a high-strung Brahmin!”

 

When Ryan had giggled again, Mama had given him a third—not unprecedented—kiss, this one on the forehead again.

 

“Sleep well, Ryan Michael,” she’d murmured, her voice as soft and worn as old silk. And as helplessly given-over as unconditional love had always been . . . and would always-ever-after be. “Sleep well, love.”

 

And Ryan had. And he’d never forgotten what she’d said, either, about the difference between a person one chose and a person one’d _had chosen for him_. Even after all hopes of finding simply a good companion—let alone a destined one—had flown off into the distance like migrating birds. Even after _Ryan McDonough_ had become _John Hancock_ , Mayor of Goodneighbor.

 

Even after John Hancock had given up his McDonough good looks: the smooth, deeply tanned skin; the rakish and sensual features, as sultry and come-hither as any vixen; and his Mama’s big, brown eyes and glossy, crow-dark hair. Tossed it all down the crapper because of a chem with the permanent, and fortunate side effect of making him so unrecognizable and . . . well, _ghoulish_ , that he could at last, and for the first time since running harum-scarum from Diamond City, look in a mirror again and meet his own gaze.

 

Not to mention, that the _high_ off that ghoulifying chem? He’d never before or since felt _anything_ remotely like it. Like being struck by lightning while flying, falling, fucking, and drowning . . . and, somehow, drifting off to sleep to his Mama’s old lullabies. . . .

 

Times, oh, three-and-a-half _billion_.

 

 _Never_ felt anything like that before and never would again for a decade-plus after. _And after_ the advent of a trouble-prone, trouble- _seeking_ Vaultie with more than a few screws loose and a taste for varied chems in unwise doses that rivaled John’s own.

 

And though John hadn’t ever forgotten _his phrase_ , the shape his soulmark had taken, by the time the Vaultie enters his life, all wide-eyed, shell-shocked, _wary_ , and . . . _new_ , it’s been more than a decade since he’d seen the actual phrase, let alone mouthed it to himself with wistful rue.

 

Even upon taking his new name, he hadn’t consciously made the connection between that new name, and the seven words on his wrist.

 

And even if he _had_ , how could hearing: “ ** _Well, we’re damn-sure not low, Johnny!_** ” mean _The Realization of True and Requited Love,_ to anyone with a lick of goddamn sense, any-goddamn- _how_? Never mind to whatever damned _genius_ was genius enough to _say it out loud_?

 

Above all else, Mayor John Hancock is a practical ghoul, with both feet on the ground—and not six feet under it. He has little inclination to and no intention of being even the tiniest bit obsessed or bothered about useless nonsense-words that’d long-since peeled away. He also sees _no point_ in wasting any of his near-immortality daydreaming about some probably-already-dead soulmate—who might’ve turned out to be an asshole or an idiot or a bore—when there’s town-runnin’ and chem-partakin’ on which to focus.

 

John Hancock has a full and busy life, with no need for a soulmate and no _room_ for one, neither.

 

And he considers it providential that of all his dry-rot-able, drop-off-able bits, the very _first_ piece of him to slough off like pointless garbage after his ghoulification, had been the patch of soulphrased skin so long-covered by various gauntlets.

 

Even though he’ll never forget the engraved inscription on his former shackle—seemingly branded into his flesh, DNA-deep—he’ll never not _snort_ with bemusement every time he catches sight of the many gauntleted wrists of Goodneighbor. He'll never not brush his finger against his own phrase- and skin-bare wrist and breathe a sigh of . . . relief.

 

Yeah. _Relief. Definitely_ the only R-word that can describe the feeling that tugs downward and _inward_ on John Hancock’s spirit every time he touches his bare wrist.


	2. 2. DAYTRIPPER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mayor John Hancock meets Goodneighbor’s newest resident for the second time—and no one gets shivved. At least not literally. Also, John’s ceiling is bossy, but very, _very_ pretty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes/Warnings: RECREATIONAL DRUG USE. SPOILERS. Mentions of murder. Implied grief and trauma. Altered mental states for both main characters and sexual contact, acts, and intercourse during those states, but no trauma or consent issues to be associated with the states or acts. Smut and hurt/comfort, mostly, with some banter.

“Hancock.”

 

John smiles into the near-distance, knowing that in the Third Rail’s lamplight, he looks especially, well, _ghoulish_. Nonetheless, he turns to fully face and eye the new kid on the Goodneighbor block. “Hey-hey, newbie. I was just thinkin’ about you and, lo . . . you’ve appeared. If that ain’t synergy, I dunno what the hell is.”

 

The Vaultie quirks a brief, wry grin, like the left side of his mouth—and _what_ a mouth, it is: wide, curving, and softly sensual . . . a dusky sort of rose in color and _plush_ , considering how angular and sinewy-lean the rest of him is under his gear—has been snagged and yanked upward by an impatient fish-hook.

 

“Well, now,” the Vaultie says, his voice a purr that’s almost rough enough to be a growl. There’s whiskey in that purr, and not just the figurative kind. “My reputation must precede me if _the_ Mayor Hancock finds me worth a spare thought or two. Should I be flattered? Or, perhaps . . . concerned?”

 

John lets his benevolently enigmatic smile widen just a hair: all exposed, gruesomely skinless sinews and muscle. “I’d say you can’t go wrong with a little of both. Just to be on the safe side.”

 

The Vaultie’s thick, expressive brows lift slowly, managing to speak volumes. “The safe side’s the least-likely place for a boy like me to play. And the least-fun one, too,” he adds, shrugging, and John allows himself a warm chuckle. That chuckle is worth a quick, barely-tangible flickering of the former vault-dweller’s poker-face. The flickering reveals genuine surprise and uncertainty . . . _wanting_ of some kind, but also strong hesitance.

 

Curious, John saunters away from the bar and a few steps closer to the Vaultie, looking markedly up as he does so to maintain eye-contact. The poker-face is fully back, now, complete with a sardonic, but otherwise meaningless smirk.

 

“Good to know. But it makes me kinda curious as to what passes for _fun_ for a . . . boy like you, Redcastle. Most Vaulties I’ve met wouldn’t know fun if it dropped to its knees and gave ‘em a freebie,” John explains, both as a prod and to show that, prodding aside, he means no offense.

 

Whatever John expects the Vaultie’s response to be, it isn’t the response he actually gets. Not at all.

 

Then, when said Vaultie’s done giving John a slow, heated, unmistakable once-over—that even John’s irradiated body feels like a fiery, all-over tease and caress—he compounds the unexpected response by meeting John’s gaze again, still smirking, and biting his plush lower lip.

 

“ _Fun_ , huh, Mr. Mayor?” Those dark brows are waggling seemingly at random. But there’s more honesty and less subterfuge in his expression than John expects. “I’d have to say guns, chems, laughing, and fucking. Usually in that order and till I ache inside and out, for those last two.”

 

John puts his hand to his chest in a stage-y, dramatic gesture. “Well, well: You’re a man after my own heart, then.”

 

“From the talk I’ve heard around town, I thought I might be,” the Vaultie agrees, then his smirk widens. “Though, if you’re donating organs, I can think of at least one other I could probably get some mileage out of.”

 

This startles a snort and guffaw from John. “Damn, brother. And I thought _my_ come-ons were cheesy.”

 

Smirk-smirkier-smirkiest. “Rumor has it they are.”

 

“Though, for the record, Vaultie,” John drawls, matching the Vaultie smirk for smirk, “If you’re _really_ interested, I’ve got more than one organ that’d dazzle and wow.”

 

“I believe you. And it’s _Nathan_ , by the way. But I think even _you’d_ be surprised how many nicknames for your various . . . organs are circling ‘round Goodneighbor and beyond. And for one, in particular—though probably not the one you’re thinking.”

 

“Aw, well, damn. Damn, sunshine.” If John were still able to blush . . . well, he might be close, indeed. Especially with the way the Vaultie— _Nathan_ —is visually devouring him. “Well, the organ innocent, little ol’ _me_ was hintin’ about was my big brain. ’Cuz I’m a thinker.”

 

“Uh-huh, cool. Intelligence _is_ stimulating,” the Vaultie agrees, half-hum, half-rumble. “So’s a sexy guy who knows his way around some clever banter. But it’s been a long couple of weeks and I kinda just wanna . . . trip my fucking face off with someone, _get off_ with someone, and _pass the fuck out_ next to someone, until whenever. Wherever I happen to be sprawled. If . . . _someone_ doesn’t mind company for a few extra hours.”

 

More than a little startled, though hiding it flawlessly, John gives the Vaultie a once-over. Even more of one than he had the night he’d first met the man: being shaken-down by the late and unlamented Finn-the-Asshole.

 

Well, Finn-the-Asshole had been _attempting_ to shake his new neighbor down—when said new neighbor had gotten barely five steps into town for the first time, too. But the newbie hadn’t taken well to that. He’d clearly been ready to make short work of Finn, who’d also, apparently, been even more of an asshole _and_ idiot than even John had thought.

 

What the hell kind of stupid bastard tried to extort someone who was not only new to town, but who was _also_ armed to the teeth and had the wary-weary-paranoid look of someone who’d pull a trigger first and ask questions never?

 

John, not as high as he’d have normally been at that time of evening, had intervened not on the new-guy’s behalf, but on fucking asshole Finn’s. Though afterwards, he hadn’t been able to figure out the reasoning behind his generosity, for the half-life of him. And sure, _John’d_ wound up gutting Finn, himself: like a big, dumb land-fish. But he really needn’t have bothered.

 

Even a brief look at the new-guy had told John straight-off that in this case, _new_ hadn’t meant _naïve_ or _weak_. Or even _inclined to give local assholes chances to walk away_.

 

In the nearly two months since that night, the newbie—a former _Vault-Dweller_ , as that’d turned out—hadn’t learned to fit in, so much as carved himself a comfortable, bloody niche. After permanently fucking up a few other dumbasses and fearless psychos looking to build reps or take them, the Vaultie had gained his own: A lone-wolf who’d live and let live, until someone actively made a place for themselves on his bad-side.

 

Whether for his unhesitating use of his many, _many_ guns, his several wicked, no-nonsense blades, or his big, bony-knuckled fists, he’d soon become known as: _That Crazy Vaultie Who Don’t Give a Shit and Don’t Take Shit Either_.

 

So, yeah . . . he’d quickly made it onto the Mayor’s radar.

 

More importantly, he’d made it onto _John’s_ radar. And not just because of that impressively effortless badassery he tends to wear like a fucking mantle and crown.

 

John’ll be the first to admit the Vaultie’s ridiculously gorgeous. And _not_ just for a Vaultie. He’s tall, dark, and intense. Magnetic. Despite being relatively fresh out of his vault—John’s willing to bet it’s been six months, tops—he wears all his patched and worn Commonwealth garb like he was born to it. Like it was tailored for him . . . and maybe it had been, considering his size.

 

Because he’s definitely taller than most folks tend to be, these days . . . at least a full head and a half taller than John, who really isn’t that tall at all. But still, the Vaultie— _Nathan Redcastle_ —certainly stands out for that height, among other reasons. He’s not supermutant-buff, or even high-ranking Gunner-buff, but neither is he all dried-and-stretched muscle and underpadded bone, like John.

 

Nope, Vaultie Nathan is still one hundred percent, _pure human_ stock, if rather rangy and lean. And lean or not, the Vaultie looks _damn good_ in all the gear John’s seen him in. He _always_ looks like something John would benefit from climbing and/or pinning (or being pinned by) for a quick, hard screw.

 

Or a _slow_ , hard screw. . . .

 

Really, the only _bad_ hard screw, in John’s long experience, is the hard screw that doesn’t get had for one being oblivious to sweet opportunity.

 

So, eyeing the smirking Vaultie, John grins his most ghoulish grin—just so no one wastes their time . . . in case the Vaultie’s simply overestimated his own open-mindedness, and taste for novelty and kink—and strolls toward the exit, nodding to his constituents and supporters as he leaves the Third Rail.

 

And leaves his potential guest to follow him home or not.

 

“I’ll get ya high as shit, handsome. And on your knees or stomach or back—or on mine, if you prefer—should you still be, ah, _up_ for it. No worries,” he reassures the Vaultie who may or may not be tagging along.

 

The night air just out the door is chill and damp. Well, it is until the Vaultie joins John, standing close and intimate, all heat and energy and _life_. “Wow. Gotta say, I’m feeling pretty honored . . . about to be compromised _and_ taken advantage of by _Mayor Hancock_. Haven’t had a Friday night _this promising_ in over two hundred years.”

 

John, already as hot as total and permanent irradiation can make a body, goes hotter, still, and guffaws. Like the goon he not-so-deep-down is. Playing it cool is for banter and flirting and sounding-out, and this shit _right_ _here’s_ about to be some chem-fueled foreplay.

 

Also, it doesn’t occur to him that the Vaultie _isn’t_ completely hyperbolizing about that two hundred-plus years-thing. “ _Fuck_ , yeah, brother. _Total_ advantage. And you’re free to crash the night afterwards, too. You seem like you’ll be good company . . . whether you’re conscious or not.”

 

 

#

 

 

John also _completely_ doesn’t expect that, as soon as there’s a shut door between himself and the Vaultie, and the rest of Goodneighbor, said Vaultie will immediately pin him against that door and kiss him hard. Hungry. Angry. As thoroughly as a drowning man taking and savoring his final breath before going under for good.

 

But said Vaultie _does_ . . . he does. And the surprise only makes it ten thousand times better.

 

By the time the kisses begin to mellow—though not slow down or cool off; that won’t happen until well after the chems have put them both under pretty deep—the Vaultie is grinding against John as hard as the kiss had been and as slow as it currently is. His dick’s like a steel bar pressing against John’s stomach and his ass feels like it was made with John’s hands in mind, all firm muscle and perfect proportions.

 

It isn’t until the Vaultie starts trying to tug John to the floor that John puts a temporary pause on progress.

 

“Hey-hey, sunshine, not that I ain’t diggin’ the enthusiasm, but . . . look, it’s not unusual for my, uh, dates to wanna get high _before_ we get down to business, if you get me. Let the high kick in, _before_ the festivities begin,” he huffs out on the Vaultie’s soft, slick, kiss-swollen lips, licking them one final time before leaning back.

 

The Vaultie, dazed and distracted—loopy, already—blinks down at John, his brows lifting slowly. “I don’t follow you,” he says, slow and wary, as if he suspects a trick or catch. John smiles a little, though he’s not remotely inclined toward feeling amused at the moment.

 

“I’m not exactly anyone’s ideal, in terms of, uh, looks. Bein’ high—at least a little—takes the edge off that, for some. I mean, it relaxes, not . . . you know . . . renders totally unconscious,” he’s quick to clarify. He doesn’t have all that many uncrossable lines, but certainty regarding informed consent is for-damn-sure one of them. “I ain’t into fuckin’ the unwillin’. But that doesn’t mean I wanna fuck someone who’s given stoic consent, then they’re fightin’ the instinct to puke while lookin’ at me.”

 

The Vaultie blinks again, then smiles. A tired, genuine one that isn’t quite fond, but has that potential. It’s something in the way the cynical line of his pretty mouth and the bright-hard glitter of his pretty _eyes_ relaxes and softens. “You inspire a lot of feelings in me, John Hancock. But nausea, and the need to stoically battle against it, aren’t any of them. Chems or not, my consent to damn-near whatever you want to do tonight is . . . enthusiastic. It’s _been_ enthusiastic, or would have been, since right after we met. Believe me: I’m no suffering martyr regarding . . . us.”

 

John’s still trying to digest that nearly a minute later when the Vaultie rocks his hips against John’s _hard_ . . . demanding and attention-grabbing. His dark eyes are steady and intense—almost feverish.

 

“I don’t mind waiting till after we’re done for whatever kinda high you have in mind. _You’ve_ got the power, on that score and some others. And anyway, for me, the chems aren’t _really_ the selling-point of this evening.”

 

“Is that so, sunshine?” John would flush at the sound of his own breathless fluster and need, if he were able.

 

“Mmhmm.” The Vaultie leans in for another kiss, teasing, wet, and brief. When he breaks it, John moans, earnest and embarrassing, until he realizes the Vaultie’s slithering down his body, slow and close. The Vaultie’s knees hit the floor and he grunts, quiet and soft under the rustle of his as-yet unshed firepower. His sharp-dark eyes never leave John’s.

 

And they don’t leave even as the Vaultie nuzzles John’s dick through his pants, with occasional, predatory-playful nips that even a ghoul’s deadened nerves can feel well enough to cause shivers. No, _shudders_.

 

“You have a problem with teeth?” the Vaultie asks without inflection, his face once again gone totally poker: mask-like and unreadable. John chuckles.

 

“Not when they’re yours, nope.”

 

The Vaultie smiles again, too, crooked and small, then sighs on John’s clearly on-board dick, while moaning. “You’re so warm,” he notes, with approval so deep John feels it in his fried bone marrow. He shudders again.

 

“Rads. I’ll never be chilly again,” he apologizes, but the Vaultie only smiles.

 

“Not a problem. When it comes to S.P.E.C.I.A.L., I made sure to stock-up on the E. Endurance,” he adds, off John’s blank look. When it only gets blanker, he laughs. “Not to mention plenty of the A-for-Agility, as well. So, feel free to put me through my paces and find out just how flexible and durable I can be, Mr. Mayor.”

 

“ _John_ ,” John corrects, still holding the Vaultie’s steady-intent gaze while the man learns him in nuzzles and nips.

 

“What? You plannin’ on _not_ keeping my mouth too occupied for chit-chat?” The Vaultie’s brows wiggle upwards again, overdone and aggrieved, and John laughs.

 

“Well, now that you remind me: I got _plenty_ of stored-up, impure thoughts about you I’d like to try in a real-world setting. . . .”

 

That smirk returns, smug and ravenous. “Aw, I’m flattered. And far too turned-on to be at all concerned.” And before John can reply, the Vaultie’s undoing each and every button of John’s John Hancock-pants with his teeth. And an inordinate but entirely appreciated amount of wet, teasing-agile tongue to torture the ready flesh behind it.

 

And once every button is unbuttoned, the Vaultie pulls the pants down John’s bony hips by tugging on the fabric at knee-level. He then neither avoids looking at _nor_ stares at John’s dick, other than to A) make sure it’s actually there and B) form a practical dick-sucking strategy.

 

John finds that pragmatic, unimpressed, but _undeterred_ outlook from a man seeing his first ghoul-dick—so John presumes—refreshing and heartening.

 

But then, the Vaultie looks up at John’s face again, and smiles that crooked-small-earnest smile. “I like your dick,” he says, matter-of-fact, unexpected, and no bullshit. John’s so stunned—again—that by the time he thinks to say something (either “thanks,” or “I made it, myself”), the Vaultie’s attention has gone south again. He whisper-kisses his way down John’s dick: just over six inches of dry, leather-tough muscle and sinew, only partially shielded by skin. Skin which also has nearly the same consistency of the leathery-dry flesh it covers.

 

Not that this stops the Vaultie from then wrapping those pretty-plush DEE-ESS-ELLs around the tip and licking and sucking like the head of John Hancock’s dick is his favorite flavor of Mentat.

 

Then, while John’s still trying to catch his breath and _not come_ —not yet—the Vaultie wraps one big, bruiser fist around John’s dick and starts going to town in earnest: all lewd sucking sounds and wet moans, head-bobbing and tongue-swirling. Sometimes, there’s teeth and sometimes there’s not. Either way, it’s the best, most voraciously eager hummer John’s gotten since well before he was a ghoul. Maybe since he’d been a teenager, when every hummer had felt like the best, simply because he’d had so few.

 

The eagerness and obvious enjoyment on the Vaultie’s end of things, alone, would put this hummer in John’s top one. _Not_ top one percent, but the number one—the _actual number one-best—_ hummer he’s ever received. And the Vaultie’s talent and ingenuity, the way he maintains eye-contact for as long as blinking and reminders of his gag-reflex let him . . . that’s all icing on the sexiest cake ever.

 

Speaking of icing cakes. . . .

 

“Fuck, sunshine. You dunno how bad I wanna come all over that perfect face. . . .” he groans, brushing his shaking fingers down the Vaultie’s high cheekbone and along the stubborn-sharp angle of his jaw. Along the hollow between them, behind which he can feel the outline of his own dick. Meanwhile, the Vaultie’s expressive brows are conveying a distinct lack of approval and a dire warning that are crystal-clear. John chuckles, hoarse and breathless and elated. “I’m not sayin’ I’m _gonna_. Just sayin’ the temptation’s there. You’re _gorgeous_. And so besmirchable.”

 

This time, those brows waggle once, then twice more in rapid succession, like some sort of code. And that’s all the warning John gets before the hand jerking him disappears.

 

Then John’s dick disappears halfway down the Vaultie’s throat, a moment after.

 

John’s surprised, pleased shout rebounds off the whole fucking world and he’s never been this close to coming without actually doing so. Never once in his life. Watching the Vaultie take him and swallow around him experimentally, as he thrusts slowly and gently into that wet-hot-perfect throat is torture. It’s bliss.

 

He only stops fucking the Vaultie’s throat—with short, sharp, increasingly forceful thrusts—because as much as he’s enjoying it, he doesn’t want this interlude to be over just yet.

 

So, he pulls back and most of the way out—the Vaultie gags just a bit—until the tip of his dick is resting on that soft-swollen lower lip. Wet, wide eyes open and lock on John’s as he reaches out to brush tears from the Vaultie’s scruffy face.

 

When John smiles, the Vaultie groans and returns it, his eyes fluttering shut as he takes John in hand once more. He starts worshiping the first third of John’s dick with his teeth and tongue again, while jerking the bottom two-thirds slow and hard and tight.

 

“This. _This_ is all the reasons in the world I’ve gone commando my whole adult life. Yeah, brother, _yeah_. You’re a _star_ ,” John praises as the Vaultie goes from sucking his dick to mouthing his balls. He’s sloppy, shameless, and eager: John’s three favorite propensities when it comes to getting the undercarriage serviced. And the Vaultie’s hand, still on the base of John’s dick, is like a perfectly-calibrated machine made _only_ for jacking off ghoul-politicians. “ _Fuuuuuuck_. Please, _please_ , tell me you swallow, sunshine?”

 

“Please tell _me_ you’ve got plenty of RadAway, or access to it, Mr. Mayor?” the Vaultie growls around John’s left testicle. And _damn_ , but the man’s voice sounds raw and hungry and _sexy_ even with a mouth full of ghoul-gonad. That should be impossible—completely against some universal law, or something. Why, if John were the complaining-type—

 

But, nah. Not even then. Not when the Vaultie’s making a meal of him in the _best_ way.

 

“Mmmhmm, bet your innocent, virgin mouth I do, sug.” When the Vaultie snorts, but doesn’t let it interrupt his ball-sucking, John chuckles. “Got more RadAway than I know what to do with, just on these-here premises, alone.”

 

“Well, then. Asked and answered.” John can feel that smirk on his balls, and those rough hands pushing his thighs wider. Until John’s all but squatting, knees bent, and probably looking like he’d been riding a boulder all day. Then the Vaultie’s fearless, shameless tongue wriggle-teases along his perineum, that perfect face and filthy mouth hot and insistent when the sun ain’t ever shined.

 

John goes boneless, until the only thing keeping him from sliding down his door is the Vaultie’s strong hand pinning his hip.

 

For a while, there’s no more talking.

 

 

#

 

 

“Your ceiling’s pretty . . . and kinda bossy,” the Vaultie notes lazily, about two hours later.

 

John’s also staring up at his pretty-bossy bedroom ceiling, pantsless and frockcoat-less, but still half-wearing his shirt, both socks, and neither of his boots. And the tricorne hat, of course.

 

At his side, not shy about closeness or physical contact, naked as the day he was born and hard as the road that stretches ahead of him, the Vaultie—no, _Redcastle_ . . . or _Nathan_ , perhaps, if there’s opportunity for some more personal interaction in the future—hums distractedly. He sounds relaxed, but not as relaxed-yet-still-conscious, as he could be. Which is unsurprising: that it’d wind up taking the full three staggered doses that, thus far, only John’s been able to handle and not be dead to the world for eighteen hours straight, to trip the Vaultie into whatever passed for euphoria for him.

 

Despite his cool and calm exterior, Redcastle’s wound tighter than braided steel wire.

 

 _Fresh out of a Vault, why_ wouldn’t _he be wound tight? According to that Vault-Dweller bullshit he’s probably been fed and raised with, he’s stepped into Hell-on-Earth, full of nothing but ravening mutants, ghouls, synths, and other varieties of subhuman. His and any_ true _human’s life therefore depends on being paranoid, violent, and slaughter-happy. That’s enough to make any-goddamn-body permanently tense._

 

Which makes John sad for a moment. But only for a moment, since he plans on easing that tension for at least a few hours. At least this once, if not ever again.

 

Either way, Redcastle’s second staggered dose of Daytripper’s obviously kicked in. It’s time for the third.

 

Or, so say the trippy colors and shapes swirling and dancing on John’s ceiling. That’s some unmistakable semaphore they’ve got going on, those colors and shapes. Bossy and chatty-friendly and nice. Kind of like Redcastle’s big, rough-dry hand on John’s dick: all familiar-slow jerking and calculated force, prescient speeding up and slowing down, and twisting and squeezing.

 

 _Technique_ that must be the result of dedicated practice.

 

 _He’s a prize, alright. You got real lucky, tonight, John Hancock_ , the ceiling colors have decided, and John silently, but wholeheartedly agrees. The ceiling strobes and flickers just a touch fussily. _Better give him that third dose, though, before his high crashes_.

 

“Right. Fuck, yeah, you’re right, Ceilin’. Heyya, Redcastle! Listen, man, listen!” Hancock makes his head loll toward his bed-partner, only to find loopy-dark eyes, wider than saucers, staring right back. Like a living void, or something. But a brimming-full one, somehow. John shivers and smiles, and Redcastle smiles right back, slow and easy and high as bricks in the sky. “ _Fuck_ , your eyes are pretty—but quit distractin’ me, it’s rude. The ceilin’s got a point: you’re almost overdue for your third dose. To-the-moon-and-back, brother, amirite?”

 

“Sure thing,” Redcastle hums, his eyes fluttering shut for a few seconds while John turns to retrieve the bottle of pills from his rickety night-table. It’s mostly full, that bottle, so John happily relieves it of three pills: two for him and one for Redcastle. When he caps the bottle and turns back to his bedmate, it’s to find those big, dark eyes on him once more. They’re as solemn as a graveyard, and the same for that pouty, shameless mouth. It’s _definitely_ time for dose number three. “But I don’ wanna come back _here_ , though.”

 

“Whuh?” John asks, frowning when he can’t figure out what in all of Creation the Vaultie means by that.

 

Those eyes drop for a moment, then meet John’s again. “I think I’d go just about anywhere with you. Even to the cold-ass moon. Just so long as . . . as we don’t have to come back to Earth. It’s so bleak and sad here. So _hard_. So different. _Wrong_. It’s only been four months, but it feels like four _forevers_ , and everyone I ever loved is dead. My wife, and my son, too. Jesus. _Shaun_. I can’t _sleep_ anymore—I barely close my eyes at night. I just—I don’t wanna _be here_ , John. Not anymore. So, we’ll go to the moon, just you and me, because _you’re good._ The _only_ good thing left.”

 

Redcastle shakes his head, as if trying to sober himself up, but soon gives that up as a bad job in favor of turning away. But not before John catches the shine of tears spilling down his cheeks.

 

Instinct and a dull ache in his chest, makes John drop the pills on the bed. Then he not only stops Redcastle from turning away completely, but pushes him flat on his back, once again and straddles him, pinning his shoulders. It doesn’t take much effort, really, which seems to surprise the other man. John shrugs.

 

“Side effect of Daytripper, sunshine. Kinda saps your strength, for a little while. For about as long as the high, basically. Slightly longer.”

 

Redcastle wipes away the last of his tears, then blinks when John pins both his wrists to the bed, his leather-tough flesh abrading fragile skin and a white, orange, and blue tatter. It’s not an actual gauntlet, John can instantly tell, but simply a repurposed piece of cloth, that Redcastle’s wrapped thick and tight around his left wrist.

 

Even as John’s eyes linger on the bits of colored cloth he can see between his fingers—even as he wonders what kind of soulphrase a _Vault-Dweller_ , and such a strange one, must have hiding under his makeshift gauntlet—Redcastle tugs a little, testing John’s grip with neither determination nor urgency. After a half a minute of doing so, he smiles when all-but concentrated main-force has been tried and hasn’t quite worked. Though, if he’d tried for another minute or two, John wouldn’t have been strong enough to _keep him pinned_ , any too much longer than that.

 

(The strength-sapping takes longer to work on ghouls, much like the high, and it’s about half as effective. And though, the side effects take _much_ longer to end, so does the high.)

 

Redcastle stares up at him for a long time, as if enrapt, eyes all wide and lips parted and wet. He swipes at them with that talented, shameless tongue.

 

“I _was_ gonna give ya a third dose, y’know.” John shrugs again. “Ceiling reminded me. But if you don’t wanna, uh, wreck your strength for five or six hours. . . .”

 

Swipe-swipe-swipe of those pretty-plush lips and Redcastle’s smiling again: goofy-loopy and big, as if the tears had never happened. “Do I _need_ to be ‘specially strong, right now, Johnny? Don’tcha wanna manhandle me _good_ , while I’m all defenseless and desperate and _completely_ under your control?”

 

John can only blink. And gape. And blink some more. Finally, he grins and shakes his head, then steals a hard, deep kiss that leaves Redcastle moaning and wriggling under John’s slighter weight and still-full strength. With a chuckle, John sits up a bit and frees Redcastle’s cloth-wrapped left wrist, then grabs the three pills. Pops one in his mouth and dry-swallows, then pushes the other two into Redcastle’s mouth.

 

Both are swallowed without hesitation, that void-dark gaze on John’s own the whole time. John doesn’t even realize they’re shifting and grinding against each other—getting each other harder and utterly _riled_ until Redcastle groans low and contented. His eyes slip blissfully shut as he sighs, and his entire body goes loose and leaden. John’s the one to grin, now. And he doubles-down on his grinding.

 

“Damn, sunshine. You’re a surprise and a half—and a fuck of a lot more fun than I was expecting,” he murmurs, leaning down to nuzzle Redcastle’s neck. He smells like human sweat, metal, and gunpowder. And like something faded-sweet and slightly bitter that tugs at John’s memory and heart.

 

Redcastle cries out, soft and helpless, when John licks his neck, hoping to taste that scent. Then again, when John latches onto salty-sweet real estate with square, none-too-gentle teeth.

 

“The moon,” Redcastles gasps, laughing. And maybe sobbing, too. _Probably_ sobbing. “Take us to the moon, Johnny, and let’s _never_ come back!”

 

“Anything, pretty-eyes. _Anything_ for you,” John promises, meaning every word, at least in that moment.

 

He says some more stuff after that, while gnawing on Redcastle’s neck. Redcastle says some things back—he gets _really_ vocal when John’s in deep with three fingers.

 

Between the high-and-horny-as-fuck Vaultie pinned under him and the bossy-damn-ceiling sassing and sagging above them both—going on about who knows? All shapes and color-commentary—John loses track of who says and promises what. Wouldn’t lay odds on _any_ seeming certainties.

 

But then, even certainties don’t matter, anymore. All that matters, is getting greased-up and inside Redcastle’s desperate-hungry-hot body. Losing himself in pleasure and in someone else. _Keeping his promise_ and taking them _both_ to the moon for as long as they can manage the trip.


	3. 3. AFTER BURNER GUM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s favorite Vaultie stops by the mayor’s office looking for freelance work and gets it. But he stays for a few other jobs, while he’s at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes/Warnings: RECREATIONAL DRUG USE. SPOILERS. Altered mental states for both main characters, and enthusiastic consent to sexual contact, acts, and intercourse during those states. But no trauma or consent issues to be associated with their states or these acts. Smut, angst, and hurt/comfort, mostly, with some banter and humor.

“Hey.”

 

John’s sitting in his office, contemplating a bottle of label-less rotgut—a gift from a well-wisher who’d passed out exactly three seconds after John’d taken the bottle—and three packs of After Burner Gum, when Fahrenheit pokes her head in. Her expression is dour and pissed-off, as usual. So, John figures whatever it is, it’s not a big deal or something that requires actual work. He smiles, gesturing at the rotgut expansively. “Hey-hey, Ahrenheit-Fay. Join me for a libation or six? I think this stuff might actually be some kinda, uh, drain-cleaner or radroach spray, but ya only live once, right?”

 

“Maybe not even, you drink _that_ stuff. Or inhale the fumes.” Fahrenheit’s glower lightens, and she rolls her eyes in exasperation. John grins his most winning ghoul-grin and picks up the bottle, shaking it enticingly. Sediment at the bottom of the bottle rises in murky grey-brown clouds and Fahrenheit shakes her head and doubles-down on the glower. “Thanks, but naw. I’d like to live to see twenty-five. You keep drinkin’ that shit and _I_ might outlive _you_.”

 

“You’re a buzz-slayer, sis. So, I guess I’ll have to vanquish these villainous substances all by my lonesome. Before they corrupt my innocent constituents,” John adds with disingenuous regret, putting the bottle down next to the After Burner again. Then he leans back in his chair, swinging his booted feet up onto his desk—only barely managing to not kick the rotgut right off it. “The sacrifices Mayor Hancock makes for this town. Hey—can I at least tempt ya with some After Burner?”

 

“You know I don’t do chems.” Another glower double-down.

 

“Ain’t chems, it’s _gum_. They give that shit to babies.” When that glower doesn’t lighten even a little, John sighs. “Well. Maybe not _this_ gum. Damn, but you’re slayin’ buzzes I haven’t even _had_ yet. ‘S that why you poked your head in? To harsh all possibilities of a mellow?”

 

Fahrenheit huffs. “No. That big guy’s here to see you and he’s armed to the teeth. Says he won’t leave till he talks to you. But he’s bein’ peaceable, so far.”

 

John frowns, trying to recall some names and faces of the _big guys_ he’s recently pissed off. After a few seconds, he gets tired of sorting and keeping track, and trying to guess which one might be so politely gunning for him tonight. “Fuck. Ahhhh, when you say _that big guy_ is here to see me, and he’s _armed to the teeth_ , you mean. . . ?”

 

She blinks. “That a large, male person is here to see you.” Another blink. “And he’s very heavily armed.”

 

“Helpful, as always, sister.” This time, _John_ rolls his eyes and Fahrenheit huffs again. He sighs, only slightly reassured by thoughts of the varied small arms and economical shivs stashed in his mayor-desk, alone—never mind the entire office and on his person. Even just the frockcoat has a shit-ton of hidden, but quickly accessible pockets. “Did he at least give a name or grievance?”

 

“I’m not your social secretary. _Brother_.” Fahrenheit’s gaze flickers and her frowning mouth twitches just a little. In _Fahrenheit_ body-lingo, that’s practically a smug, shit-eating grin. John laughs and she rolls her eyes again. “Whatever. It’s the _guy_. You know, the _tall_ one? Crazy eyes, always loaded out like a gunboat, always followin’ you around— _always starin’_ after you like you’re chems and he’s goin’ through withdrawal?”

 

Stunned, all John can do is gape as his list of big guys narrows to one who hadn’t even been on the pissed-off list. But . . . it couldn’t be, right? Not only haven’t they spoken or even made eye-contact since that night, six weeks ago, but John hasn’t even _seen_ Redcastle. Though he’s heard the man mentioned, by name and by reputation, a whole lot.

 

Yet Fahrenheit has apparently been seeing him quite a bit if, as she’d claimed, he was “followin’” and “starin’.”

 

But why in hellfire would Nathan Redcastle be following John around—in stealth-mode, if John hadn’t spotted him even once—and _staring_?

 

The waiting silence between John and his bodyguard draws out not because of confusion or blankness on John’s part, but from sheer disbelief and startled hope. Happiness. As he begins to smile, Fahrenheit rolls her eyes in exasperation for a third time. Then she raises her arms and flaps her hands when they’re high above her head. “Damnation, Hancock, the _big guy_. Jeez, _you know_. The _Vaultie_. He’s got hair and he’s wearin’ boots and—look, am I lettin’ him in or tossin’ his ass out on the street?”

 

“Ah, might as well let him in, I guess,” John says, breathless and flustered, despite having aimed for absent and nonchalant. He doesn’t fool Fahrenheit for a moment, judging by her once more rolled eyes and muttered swearing as she ducks back out the door, without closing it all the way.

 

Instead of shouting after her to ask if she was born in a barn, John simply grins, wide and stupid, at his office door.

 

 

#

 

 

A minute after Fahrenheit’s grumbled her way back to wherever she’d left _that big Vaultie_ waiting, John’s still grinning. But down at his rotgut and After Burner gum.

 

 _Acres and acres, and it’s all mine_ , he muses, smiling because its less true than usual. If Nathan Redcastle’s knocking on his door, then John’s maybe not going to be boozing and chemming all alone tonight. Maybe.

 

When the door to his office swings near-silently open less than another minute later, John’s moved himself and a cigarette to his balcony, and is staring out the open left of the double doors. The lively evening is, as usual, a chorus of laughing, swearing, fighting, and shouting. Though, perhaps not in that exact descending order.

 

“Hancock.”

 

“Yup. Or his identical, yet handsomer-still, twin. What’s good, sunshine? Need to shoot the shit?” John asks, letting his smirk and flirt out to play. He doesn’t have to look around to know it’s Redcastle standing there, and Redcastle alone, rather than Fahrenheit, too. She really _is_ the worst social secretary—the worst anything that _isn’t_ being John’s loyal, hard-ass bodyguard.

 

“I could settle into some, hmm, shooting, yes,” the Vaultie says, wry, dry, and rich. His voice, though simply relaxed and pleasant—not necessarily sultry-rough-dangerous, tonight . . . not _yet_ —is the stuff of wet dreams.

 

“Happy to oblige, then. What can I, ah, do ya for?”

 

“Free.”

 

When John looks over at Redcastle, the man isn’t smirking or waggling his eyebrows, but smiling almost haplessly. John returns the smile, slow and considering, and Redcastle’s copper-tone skin goes darker with a flush. Not of embarrassment or discomfort. Not even of anger—though it’s pretty well-known that _this_ Vaultie’s got a temper like a detonated nuke.

 

No, _this flush_ is pretty and almost demure. And Redcastle seems shy and cautiously pleased.

 

John finds that. . . .

 

Redcastle flushes deeper, still, and looks down at his big boots, his brow furrowed a bit. That tiny and pleased smile is still playing about his mouth and curving those distracting lips. “Um. But . . . in a more professional capacity, I was hoping the Mayor might need some odd jobs done around town or near-abouts. I’m pretty handy at fixing things, finding stuff, and . . . problem-solving.”

 

And even though Redcastle gestures at his single remaining side-piece—how Fahrenheit had gotten the man to divest of all his other weapons, at least the commonly visible ones, is anyone’s guess—John lets his smile become a suggestive smirk, and his voice drop into a suggestive purr. “Don’t I know it, brother. Well, since you’re so handsy and eager for work, well, I can think of a few _jobs_ you’ve already proven to be _damned_ good at.”

 

“Why, Mr. Mayor,” Redcastle murmurs, all sotto sex-voice, then smirks and bats his eyes. And, yeah, they’re kind of crazy, those eyes, like Fahrenheit had said. _Grief-mad_ is how _John’s_ thought of them since that night they fucked and tripped then fucked some more. Now, he’s nine hundred percent convinced that’s what they are: grief-mad. But they’re still the _prettiest_ eyes John’s ever seen. Which means they totally match the plush-mobile mouth not far below them. “What-ever are you innuendo-ing? _I_ just came here looking for honest work.”

 

“Ah, for real?” John sighs: soft, sad, and _way_ overdone, just like Redcastle’s innocent delivery. Then he takes a long drag off his cigarette and smiles as he lets the smoke drift, slow and dancing, from his mouth and lack-of-nostrils. “That’s a damn shame, then, brother. I’m makin’ my disappointed-face, right now. In case ya can’t tell.”

 

Redcastle shrugs, his smirk becoming a wry smile bracketed by attractive lines. The crow’s feet at the corners of those pretty eyes crinkle and Redcastle’s broad shoulders relax noticeably.

 

“I came here because of looking for honest work, yeah. But if you’re willing to give me some other reasons to stay a while . . . I surely will,” he says, no longer using that sex-voice, and somehow, sexier still just for sounding chagrined, a bit weary, and poignantly hopeful. For a flicker of a moment, that crooked smirk flashes back and is gone. “I’m willing to perform my civic duties in whatever ways you feel are best, Mr. Mayor.”

 

John shivers, grins, and pitches his one-third smoked cig out the balcony door. A second later, a startled, offended squawk of: “ _Fuck! What the—not cool, Hancock! Not cool! Dickweed!”_ drifts up from the street below. But John’s already swagger-strolling back into his office proper, practically prowling as he gets closer to Redcastle.

 

“Your adoring constituents,” the Vaultie notes, ironic and amused. “And _Dickweed_ would be your _middle_ name. . . ?”

 

“I think we’ll start with you on your knees.” John, halfway across the room, doesn’t pause his savoring prowl as he passes his desk, merely grabs one of the packs of After Burner. He hadn’t even really noticed Redcastle’s quip, but he _does_ notice the way Redcastle’s tall, rangy frame shivers and his sudden, gusting exhale shakes. The way those pretty-plush lips part further and those pretty-dark eyes widen more. “You’re real clever and quick with that mouth, sunshine. But maybe I need to be reminded of _how_ clever and quick.”

 

Those wide, drowning-deep eyes tick from John’s face to his crotch, and then back. Then Redcastle tries on a smirk that’s more hungry and hooked, than sardonic and sarcastic. “Right. For the best allocation of municipal resources . . . or something.”

 

Then, Redcastle’s exhaling again, hard and with a soft moan on the back of it, as John’s hands clamp on his hips—careful of the side-piece: a sleek and silenced semi-automatic pistol, from the feel. But John doesn’t care. He walks them back and back and back until Redcastle hits the wall near the open office door, which John firmly shuts and locks.

 

“Hancock,” Redcastle breathes heavily, his eyelids all aflutter in sweeps of thick, sooty-stubby lashes. John bounces up on his booted toes.

 

“ _John_ ,” he once more corrects, and it’s good for a tiny, uncontrolled whimper from the Vaultie. Even with John on his toes, they’re still not eye-to-eye. But the way Redcastle is looking at him—just like he had that night last month, when he’d begged John to take him to the moon for keeps—makes John feel towering, commanding, and invincible.

 

He doesn’t _need_ to have Nathan Redcastle on his knees to intensify or perpetuate this feeling.

 

But he _wants that._ More than anything else he’s ever wanted and almost _to the exclusion_ of everything else.

 

As John’s savoring this intense, freight-train desire, and the burning build of it in his entire body—but especially in his dick and balls, and at the base of his spine . . . like every rad his body’d ever absorbed is now centered exactly in those places—Redcastle groans and swoops in for a hard, frantic, ravenous kiss. One that his entire sturdy frame and trembling lips all but beg John to guide and take control of.

 

So, John does—and that’s no hardship at all. By the time he lets Redcastle up to pant and swear and moan, they’re pressed together from hips to knees, shifting and grinding on each other slow and sweet. Tortuous. Perfect.

 

John holds up one unwrapped square of After Burner near Redcastle’s tempting mouth. The Vaultie’s waggly eyebrows lift in question and John smiles. “After Burner. It’s—well, it’s basically crank. Speed, with chewing gum as the delivery agent. It’ll make everything seem bright-hot-fast-now, and make _you_ feel like. . . .” _like how the way you look at me makes_ me feel “. . . a million caps, brother. Fantastic-o. Shiny and strong and energized. And, aside from that euphoria, it’s, uh, known to speed up metabolic processes, as well.”

 

“Meaning?”

 

“Meaning you’ll get hard fast and _come fast_. Probably harder than you ever have, too. And then . . . you’ll get hard again. _Fast_.” John raises his own hairless brows and Redcastle’s dark eyes flash and glow like spit-shined abysses.

 

He opens his mouth and doesn’t speak. Neither does John. He just places the gum on Redcastle’s shameless, twitching tongue. And when Redcastle stops sucking on John’s fingers and releases them, John pops four chemical/mint-tasting squares into his own mouth and starts chewing. That dose’d stop a human heart, but it’s just enough to get a ghoul revved and ready.

 

Smirking—and chewing-chewing-chewing—Redcastle easily reverses their positions, slamming John against the wall and sucking a promising, teasing-fleeting kiss from his lips.

 

When John chuckles and squeezes his ass, Redcastle slithers down to his knees. He holds John’s gaze all the way down, then winks and blows a small bubble with the gum, popping and grinning.

 

Then he shoves the wad down between his jaw and cheek and applies his mouth to John’s civic pride. With both skill and dedication.

 

 

#

 

 

When the After Burner _really_ kicks in for Redcastle—at least five minutes before it does for John—he doubles-down on sloppily, eagerly, urgently, and with moans that are designed to drive John off his rocker, feting John’s dick like it’s the King of France, in town for a visit.

 

John grunts, groans, then sighs, and clenches his fingers into fists in Redcastle’s thatchy, thick hair. He lets his hips, his body, his _being_ roll with being enthusiastically worshiped and devoured.

 

When the After Burner kicks in for _John_ —when even shoving himself down Redcastle’s spasming throat hard, fast, and repeatedly doesn’t seem to be cutting it in terms of coming his brains out—he pulls himself free of Redcastle’s demanding throat and mouth. The other man gags a little, coughs and tries to catch his breath, then gazes more than a little starrily up at John, steady and not blinking. His eyes and face are wet with tears and spit—he looks dazed and roughly-used. _Gorgeous_.

 

And he almost immediately tries to dive right back in to groaning and gagging on John’s dick.

 

“ _Fuck,_ beautiful _._ You tryna kill me? Hell, I just might letcha. _Damn_ ,” John exhales shakily, after putting his right index finger over Redcastle’s use-puffy mouth to halt him. The response this garners is a glare, which quickly turns into pouting and puppy-eyes that are so sincere in their desire and chastened pleading, John nearly blows his load on Redcastle’s face.

 

Only the likelihood of Redcastle singlehandedly snapping him like a twig—without changing positions or even facial expressions—then using him for kindling puts the kibosh on _that_ basic instinct.

 

 _Maybe next time_ , he tells himself, doing his best not to let his brain linger on the powerfully primal mental vacation that is imagining Nathan Redcastle on his knees, and claimed for keeping in the oldest fashion on Earth. John cups Redcastle’s face in his hand and when the Vaultie smiles, John smiles back, swallowing around the flutter in his throat that throbs like an excited second heart behind his larynx. _Definitely next time_.

 

Redcastle’s smile becomes a tired-quirky grin and he reaches up to place his left hand on John’s right. And for the first time since his arrival, John notices that same makeshift gauntlet on Redcastle’s left wrist: orange, white, blue, and ragged. Still wrapped so tight and secure, that the only way to get it free’d be over Redcastle’s rotting corpse, and with advanced lock-picking tools and skills . . . and possibly a blowtorch.

 

On the heels of this amused, but mostly curious notice, is a thought he’s had before, and not just during the last time they’d swapped fluids: _I wonder what his soulphrase is. I’ll bet it’s some crazy, fucked-up, awesome shit. I’ll bet that wife of his, even if she wasn’t his soulmate, was one badass woman. His equal in every way_.

 

And, on the throat-closing, stomach-clenching, teeth-grinding heels of _that_ , John refocuses on shit that _actually matters_ : like the fine-as-fuck Vaultie eager to take ghoul-dick in whatever ways he can get it.

 

While he slides and teases his fingertip down to Redcastle’s chin and down his throat, Redcastle doesn’t resume swallowing John’s dick. But he _does_ lavish it in kisses, nuzzles, and licks, his dark eyes shut and his face content.

 

“You’re beautiful,” John tells him, simple, honest, and apropos of fucking nothing. Redcastle smiles a little, the curve of it sweet torment on John’s aching-rigid dick.

 

“What do you want, Mr. Mayor?” Redcastle asks, husky and hoarse and hungry. John lets his fingertip linger on Redcastle’s Adam’s apple. His pulse. His collarbone. Then John hums in brief, but serious consideration.

 

“I wanna be the first mayor of Goodneighbor to bend a hot Vaultie over his desk, then go balls-deep all night long. Or until we run outta After Burner,” he amends, trying to keep at least one foot grounded in reality, in spite of his libido’s fantasies and the After Burner’s insane insistences.

 

Redcastle shudders and moans, so soft John can barely hear it or the burning-agonizing need just under its surface. But he feels that shudder in the tongue teasing precome from his dick like its ambrosia.

 

“Dunno about making you the _first_ , Johnny, but. . . .” Redcastle’s eyes flutter open, smug and happy. “I can _guarantee_ you’ll be the most recent.”

 

“Good enough for me, sunshine. Let’s get this dog-and-pony show on the road,” John says, chuckling and damn-near hauling the Vaultie to his feet singlehandedly. Kissing him and crowding him back and back and back, until they’re stopped by their destination: the leading edge of the mayor’s desk and the place where fantasy and reality are about to collide.

 

 

#

 

 

That collision is . . . intense.

 

John’s kissing the face off Redcastle—has him not only pinned against the leading edge of the desk, but damn-near bent in half backwards over it. When his hands start getting proactive about removing some Vaultie-layers, Redcastle stops him and breaks the kiss, laughing. He pulls John’s left hand up to his lips for a kiss on the fingertips, then his right hand for the same.

 

“Your hired muscle—uh, Fahrenheit? She seems like a nice kid. Loyal and observant. But she could be a little more thorough,” he explains, half-apologetic as he pulls John’s arms around his neck, then begins removing clothing and other . . . accoutrements in very specific, careful order. Soon there’s a not inconsiderable pile of incendiaries and hardware, carefully tossed a few feet _away_ from John’s desk. Nearer to hand are Redcastle’s boots and his removed articles of clothing.

 

“Did you . . . did you _booby-trap_ yourself, sunshine?” John asks, amused and horrified and stepping back, but not far. He can keep his hands warily on Redcastle’s shoulders, lightly gripping and squeezing. Still staring down at himself and frowning, Redcastle’s jacketless, vestless, half-shirtless, with one suspender off and the other stretched in his right hand, about to be shrugged off. His fly is unbuttoned, revealing blue boxers of a rough weave, out of which his dick-tip pokes, wet and red. His left hand hovers nearby: between it and John’s shirt-covered bulge.

 

“Always do, lately.” Shrugging, Redcastle’s out of the second suspender at the same moment his deliberating hand chooses John’s lucky dick for gripping, squeezing, and tugging. John hisses and swears appreciatively, leaning into the touch and into Redcastle’s body, hoping like Hell the man’s done disarming himself.

 

“You’re real paranoid about getting your picket pocked, huh?”

 

“I’m paranoid about everything. Well—” Redcastle’s smile is fleeting as his gaze ticks from John’s eyes to his mouth. “Almost everything. I don’t give a shit about pickpockets. But when some asshole manages to take me down and kill me, if he tries to loot the corpse, too . . . he’ll get a big surprise. And I’ll have more company in Hell, before too long.”

 

“Morbid and spiteful,” John murmurs and grins, leaning in until Redcastle’s breath huffs hot on his mouth. “And awesome. And not at all unfitting from you, Vaultie.”

 

“ _Nathan_ ,” Redcastle—Nathan corrects solemnly, not smiling for the all-of-point-five seconds between speaking and kissing John with aggressively submissive yearning and need.

 

John decides he’s willing to brave body parts maybe getting blown off just to touch some more Vaultie-flesh. And Nathan doesn’t stop John’s wandering hands, but instead starts plucking at and making short work of John’s trousers. John kicks off his boots, in the _opposite_ direction of Nathan’s piles o’ death-and-clothing.

 

Soon, John’s frock-coat, pants, vest, and shirt are a memory, and John’s wearing nothing but his frayed socks and the tricorne hat. John toes off the former while bestowing hickeys on Nathan’s chest, but balks when the Vaultie makes to remove the latter.

 

“The tricorne stays.”

 

“Seriously?” Nathan leans back, his hands dropping a bit from John’s hat, to cup his face gently-gently-gently. His waggly eyebrows are shot-up in amusement and exasperation, and possibly fondness. John smirks and shrugs.

 

“What can I say, sunshine? This hat _could be_ the source of my charm, luck, strength, and sexual prowess and skills. I might be doin’ you a real disservice if I took it off _now_.”

 

“ _Could be? Might?_ ” The eyebrows shoot up a bit more, and John shrugs again.

 

“Might _not_. But it can’t be proven or disproven, so I might as well keep it on, right?”

 

“Right. Pascal’s Wager . . . but with a hat.” Nathan blinks, deadpan and slow, then shakes his head, grinning wide and carefree. “Oh-kay, that’s either very creepy or very endearing. Or both. I’ll decide which during the afterglow. C’mere, Johnny.”

 

And before John can respond with either banter or kisses, he’s being hauled back in for the latter. Nathan’s hands drop to John’s chest, where they run up and down with both restraint and reverence. Then he sits on the edge of the desk, long-strong thighs spread until John completely closes the distance between them and they’re skin-to-skin again. Nathan’s thighs close tight around John’s and his calves lock at the ankles behind them.

 

With the Vaultie at eye-level, John stares into his crazy-pretty-sad eyes for so long, he starts to get vertigo. Nathan stares right back, and some of the _crazy_ -sparkle and _sad_ -endlessness twining throughout all the pretty is leavened by burgeoning trust and hope. Contentment that may be temporary but is clearly even more treasured for its fleeting nature.

 

And maybe not just by Nathan.

 

“Hey, Mr. Mayor.” Slinging his arms around John’s neck, Nathan pulls him closer, until their foreheads bump gently and their lips brush, but don’t maintain contact. John smiles and, following a few too-fast, too-long moments, lets go of Nathan’s right asscheek and reaches up to grab the tricorne. After a split-second of hesitation, John shrugs, smirks, and moves it from his head, to Nathan’s, which is good for a surprised, deeply in-drawn breath. John chuckles and hums.

 

“Hey, yourself, Vaultie. Lookin’ stylish, brother.”

 

Nathan smiles wider and John can feel it on his mouth—wants to taste it, so, he does. In fact, he does a _lot_ of Vaultie-tasting, that night, in between chewing wads of After Burner. Time goes fast and slow, like taffy mixed with mercury. But eventually the moon is high in the sky, its chilly glow the only light besides the lamps, which have either burned low or out. By this iffy illumination, John gazes up at Nathan, bent over the desk, hands braced, legs spread, chest heaving as he gasps and moans and begs for more than John’s appreciative tongue.

 

Smiling-smiling-smiling, John acquiesces, with one more lingering lick and kiss—darting his tongue briefly into Nathan’s relaxed body yet again, for the loudest moans yet—then gets to his feet, running his hands up Nathan’s hard, muscular back to grip those broad shoulders tight. Nathan groans as John presses against his back, close and promising.

 

Then John puts just enough space between them to run his hands back down Nathan’s body. To palm that perfect ass with possessive roughness. To admire it with bruise-tight squeezes.

 

Nathan shakes and quakes, wriggles and squirms—arches and displays himself with sensual poise—as John finishes opening him up with slick and two fingers. Then a little more slick and three fingers, with his other hand clamped down on the base of Nathan’s vertically straining dick.

 

“Please, John . . . _please_ ,” he begs, mindless and broken-open, clenching and relaxing around John’s fingers while simultaneously trying to pull them deeper. He _wails_ when John applies ruthless, increasing pressure to his spot, then alternates his determined thrusts with pronounced scissoring to stretch the Vaultie’s _holy-god-TIGHT_ ass.

 

John leans close, kissing Nathan’s right shoulder. He doesn’t even have to ask: _You ready, sunshine?_ Nathan’s _been_ bent and bowed pretty damned obviously and invitingly. And as of John’s last pass at his prostate, has swung his right leg, bent at the knee, up on John’s desk.

 

John sighs and smiles at this image, knowing he’ll carry it forever—way past even his final deathbed reminiscences. In this moment, Nathan Redcastle is not just gorgeous, but gorgeously showcased. Gorgeously offered and given-over.

 

And the increased ease of access is _also_ gorgeous. Pretty nifty, too.

 

Stepping closest once again, John urges Nathan’s leg further on the desk with one hand—as ever, the Vaultie is eagerly compliant—then he grabs another handful of After Burner. The chewed-up wad gets spit toward the balcony, but at least this time, there’s no yelling and commentary from below.

 

He pushes another square of the gum into the Vaultie’s mouth while squeezing his balls just hard enough to elicit another delicious sound: this one a gut-level _groan_.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” John laughs, burying his face in Nathan’s nape for kisses, nibbles, and that sweat, gunpowder, and elusively bittersweet scent that’s just _Nathan_. With his free hand and no fanfare, he guides his dick into hot-tight-claiming _Heaven_ , to a chorus of both their various grunts and gasps, moans and groans, swears and whimpers. When John can’t go any deeper—not for lack of trying to and shoving at Nathan’s desk-thigh as if that’d somehow create extra inches for John to fuck his way into—he wraps his arms around Nathan, who’s shaking once again and gasping steadily. The tricorne, already long-since gone askew, falls off his head and to the mayor’s desk. The only thing John wants more than to come after one more hard, deep thrust is to never, ever come, and stay hard and held in Nathan’s warm, welcoming body forever. “Are you even _real_ , Vaultie? _Fuck_ , how are you _real_?”

 

“ _Please_ ,” is Nathan’s wrecked, pride-absent reply, and John doesn’t need to be begged twice. He likes taking control as well as the next guy—likes the rough-stuff, too, sometimes. But he has no interest in being cruel.

 

Not ever, when he’s with Nathan Redcastle.

 

His inaugural thrusts are firm and measured, but not forceful—all control and restraint and priming. But then Nathan’s staggered-rolling high _really_ kicks in with a shiver, a long, snickering growl, then a fluid ripple of every muscle of his body and the sinful snake of his hips and pelvis.

 

“ _Harder, goddamnit_ ,” he demands, slightly slurred and brittle with desperation. “ _More, John_.”

 

With a serenely predatory smile and grabbing those teasing hips, John adjusts his stance, braces _himself_ , and tests his grip and leverage. “Sweet-and-sinful sunshine . . . you’re spoilin’ me for anyone else, y’know?”

 

“ _John_.”

 

“I’ll give you all the harder and more you want, Nathan. You trust me to do that?”

 

Nathan’s gone stock-still under and around John, as if he’s been electrified. His formerly hanging head is now up and tilted. Listening and considering. “Y-Yeah. Yeah, John. I trust you.”

 

John waits a few seconds for the _to-do-that_ qualifier, and when it doesn’t come, he grins, sighs, and kisses the spot exactly between Nathan’s shoulder-blades. Nathan’s body relaxes, but shudders hard, and he moans almost silently.

 

“Then I trust you to let me know if or when it stops bein’ good. Stops bein’ what you want and need,” John murmurs in that exact spot, soft as whispers from ghosts. “I only wanna give you what you want and need, sunshine, and I trust you to keep me on track about that. Trust you for a lotta other stuff, too, ‘kay?”

 

Nathan nods, sniffles just loud enough that John can hear it, then nods again, his thatchy-dark head bobbing earnestly and vehemently. Kind of like when he sucks dick. “I . . . won’t ever betray your trust, John. _Any_ of your trust.”

 

“That’s good to hear. And I’ll do my utmost to return that favor, pretty-eyes.” After a pause to collect himself and let Nathan do the same, should he care to, John plants another kiss, smacking and affectionate, on that spot, and Nathan sniffles again. “Ya ready?”

 

Nathan’s barely completed one affirmative nod of his mussy head before John’s putting his bony-narrow hips into giving Nathan everything he’d been demanding—and then some. And once he’s got his rhythm set, he doesn’t stop or slow-down, doesn’t give quarter or mercy. Nathan comes for the first time, gibbering and sobbing and howling himself raw. The spasm and convulsion of muscles around John’s dick is sheer torture, but he rides it out. Rides the high of having fucked _Nathan Redcastle_ into coming hard with his dick untouched. Then rides Nathan’s titanic aftershocks, and his near-immediate second hard-on of the night.

 

Still smiling, John just fucks Nathan harder and faster.

 

He fucks breathless, broken near-screeches of his own name from Nathan’s hoarse, rasping throat—fucks Nathan up onto his tippy-toes, and with that desk-leg thrown far and wide—but he doesn’t rest on these sweet laurels, or let them leaven his rhythm or intensity.

 

He just lets them fuel his hunger and determination to _have_ this Vaultie . . . and to _utterly wreck him_.

 

Nathan comes again, gasping and groaning and possibly choking . . . and John clamps down on his sweat-slick hips and rides him harder. Rides _that high_ , too. Farther and longer than his After Burner high had taken him or the high of the remainder on his desk _would_ take him.

 

Long after the catcalls, whistles, cheers, hoots, and sundry responses and support from below his balcony have subsided into prurient and anticipatory silence—long after John’s _fucking Nathan Redcastle-high_ has kicked into full-gear—his rhythm finally slips. His thrusts are still all power and speed, but sporadic and of varied intensities. John’s huffing and puffing, groaning and grunting—biting and laving—into the muscles between Nathan’s shoulders. The hand on Nathan’s desk-leg gives up its perch and feels between their bodies, then under Nathan’s to rub, pluck, pinch, then twist at his taint. Then the stretched-swollen-sore rim of his asshole. Then back to his taint.

 

That’s good for a full-body Vaultie-quake.

 

Nathan’s sudden keen—high, loud, and wolf-eerie—trails off into a moan as he shudders, then comes for a third time. John swears at the renewed torture focused entirely on his dick and gives up on all rhythm or coordination, simply going for deep and hard and _often_ before he himself loses it.

 

Slumped into a limp, drained heap on the mayor’s desk—right leg half-falling off it—Nathan’s barely managing twitches and petulant whimpers when John hits that final high. His body takes whatever John’s dishes out obediently, without resistance or complaint.

 

Though, Nathan _does_ shudder and whine when John grabs his utterly-done dick for stroking and squeezing and hopeful encouragement.

 

“Got a fourth for me, sunshine? Hmm? Gonna be my good, slutty little Vaultie and come on-demand, whenever Mayor Hancock says?”

 

“G-Go . . . fuck yourself . . . Mr. Mayor. . . .”

 

“ _Ahhhhh_ —ah, fu—”

 

John’s laughing as he finally blows like Vesuvius. Laughing and shouting—and maybe dying. . . .

 

But mostly laughing.

 

 

#

 

 

 _Honest_ work doesn’t get talked about until early next afternoon. John wakes up in the small bedroom behind his office, to Nathan leisurely sucking his dick, and comes soft and sweet even before he opens his eyes.

 

Afterwards, with Nathan’s warm, relaxed face on his stomach—his long legs half-hanging off the bed—John smokes and stares at the thin sliver of overcast daylight coming in through the cracked-open door to the office.

 

“’F you still want a job that, uh, pays in caps, I got a reconnaissance-thing that needs handlin’. By someone I can trust to do it well and right . . . be loyal,” John adds reluctantly. Nathan hums his understanding and interest, so John goes on. “Been a lotta weird talk about a place in Raider territory. Prolly ‘cuz the Raider’s’ve been so damn quiet, lately. And I don’t mean plotting shit-quiet . . . but an uncomfortable, post- _really_ -bad-coitus sorta quiet. _You know_.”

 

“Hmm, not from _recent_ experience, I don’t. But, yeah, I get your gist,” Nathan murmurs lazily, yet John senses he’s completely alert and attentive. “Want me to scope it out and report back?”

 

“If you would. Not a look-see, but real, solid reconnaissance. When _Raiders_ start bein’ careful and sensible regardin’ some unknown, it’s probably time for _everyone_ to be on the lookout.”

 

“Gotcha. I’ll be on it, ASAP.”

 

John smiles and runs his hand through Nathan’s messy hair, down his neck and along his sharp, left shoulder-blade. “Didn’t even ask how much the job pays, newbie.”

 

He can feel Nathan’s slow, wry smile. But his expression is dutifully solemn when he turns his face up to look at John. “Okay. How much _does_ this job pay Newbie? I’ll be sure to relay that info to him, in case he’s interested in haggling for some extra caps.”

 

“Smartass. Job pays two hundred-fifty caps.” He pinches Nathan’s shoulder and the Vaultie’s big smile shines even in the hazy-diffuse light, until it’s smothered in John’s stomach, where it becomes kisses and nips and utterly ridiculous raspberries. John sighs and shivers and guffaws, respectively. “ _Fine_. Three hundred, even.”

 

“Mmm. You’re a tough negotiator, Mr. Mayor.”

 

“Kinda gotta be, Vaultie. Can’t let you freelancers walk all over—oh, _fuck_ , Nathan, baby, that _tongue_. . . .”

 

“Mmm-hmm- _hmm_ . . . so, where exactly in Raider territory am I bound for?”

 

“Place called— _yeah, I like where your head’s at, sunshine . . . like everything you do to me_ —place called the . . . the Pickman Gallery. I wanna know what’s really goin’ on out there. So, be thorough. But . . . be careful, too.”

 

Nathan’s reply is an acknowledging grunt and teasing hum that blots out all of John’s mayor-brain, and at least half of his John-brain. He shouldn’t be getting so hard again so fast, with the After Burner so long out of his system. Not to mention just off a hard-fucking all-nighter like they’d had and the sweet, lingering slow-job John’d woken up to. But, well . . . here they are.

 

Here they are.

 

And in all honesty . . . John wouldn’t be _anywhere_ else.

 

“Yeaaaaah, that’s . . . that’s _thorough_ , alright, sunshine. Real, _real_ thorough. . . .”


	4. 4A. JETFUEL. . . .

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary: The Vaultie disappears. Five-ish months later . . . the Vaultie returns. He is and has been in a _bad_ way. He’s not the only one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes/Warnings: RECREATIONAL DRUG USE. SPOILERS. Mentions of Pickman Gallery and Bobbi-no-nose. Mentions of murder. Mentions of drug abuse, addiction, and implied going-cold-turkey/necessary sobriety (for one main character, not both). Mentions of altered mental states for both main characters.

**~~4A. JETFUEL. . . .~~ **

 

After the Bobbi-no-nose Incident, John doesn’t see hide nor hair of Nathan Redcastle for over four months. Near-on five.

 

He’s not entirely sure what to think of the whole thing—of Nathan getting mixed-up with Bobbi’s schemes. But he trusts Fahrenheit, and what she’d reported to him about events during the attempted robbery of the Freight Depot, and John’s storage room. Her report had sounded _exactly_ in-keeping with both Bobbi’s ways _and_ the Vaultie’s.

 

The only conclusion he can draw—Nathan not being so skittish and sin-eating that he’d think John’d blame _him_ for Bobbi’s clever, intricate lies, and then for instantly siding with John when the truth outted . . . for putting Bobbi down without a second thought—is that the Vaultie’s taste for all things Goodneighbor and all things _Hancock_ has been severely curbed by the whole mess.

 

Because, sure, not a damned soul with eyes and a brain’d mistake Nathan Redcastle for someone who has a problem with killing when he makes up his mind it’s what wants doing.  But John knows, even just in his brief and patchy experience with this particular Vaultie, that Nathan only kills out of sudden necessity or pre-emptive necessity. Not for fun or for his rep. So, turning Bobbi into bloody crochet might have been a genuinely urgent necessity, in his eyes. Or it’d simply had the potential of being one. John hadn’t been there that night and Fahrenheit’s idea of details, as ever, leaves a lot to be desired. But perhaps Bobbi’d been one straw, too many.

_One-life-taken_ , too many.

 

Especially following the Pickman Gallery craziness—which’d been resolved not even six weeks prior to the Bobbi Incident—after which, Nathan’d been in John’s bed a lot more than he’d been in whatever had been passing as his own. Taking jobs nearer to Goodneighbor and spending more time in or close to town, than rambling away from it. Making friends with the non-hostile locals and even doing good works for his neighbors. Errands and kindnesses that had added a gentler, less scarifying facet to his intimidating rep.

 

Then, after putting Bobbi in the figurative dirt, Nathan had disappeared without a word. He’d just turned away from shishka-Bobbi and Fahrenheit’s suggestion that he: “Come talk to Hancock! He’ll _wanna_ talk to you, Vault-Dweller!”

 

He hadn’t even acknowledged her, let alone stopped or looked back. And Fahrenheit had known better than to try and follow or way-lay him. An excellent and loyal bodyguard she’s always been, but Nathan Redcastle is and will always be . . . something else, entirely. And not _anything_ even capable, confident Fahrenheit would take on for _no_ damn reason.

 

Rumors have abounded about him since. Some of them are fairly notable. John’s been keeping his ear to the ground for Vaultie-deeds and -sightings—he’s even been paying for information and clarification.

 

His favorite Vaultie’d had a lot of shit going on throughout the Commonwealth, especially outside Boston, since am-scraying. Just to keep it all straight and unmuddled, John had started keeping _organized notes_ , but . . . he’s got fuck-all to _act on_ with any of it. No ideas for how or if to use it.

 

And John’s had to come to the gut-level acceptance of one long-obvious fact: Nathan—Redcastle— _the Vault-Dweller_ will come back to Goodneighbor or not, as suits him. Not a moment before, should the former be his will. Nothing John does or says or knows will change any of that.

 

He’s told himself that for over four months, now, as he drinks and chems himself into stupor after high after fucking black-out. He drags himself through his days and duties, refusing to touch either low or high until he’s at least made a half-assed pass at mayoring for a good third of the day. Then, once the sun dips below the horizon and the noises out below the balcony become a touch less respectable and sober. . . .

 

Well, by that point, John’s usually halfway through a first bottle of rotgut and whatever the night’s chem is: he’s seeing in triplicate and feelin’ fine, except . . . he’s not.

 

He’s not.

 

He’s going through some awful sort of withdrawal that no amount of booze or chems will stave-off or ease. He hurts in some way that has nothing to do with rads or falling to pieces in slow motion, and everything to do with having never noticed before the Vaultie’s absence how paint-by-the-numbers and _empty_ everything, even his own calling, has become.

 

And maybe has been for a long time.

 

It _has_ to be empty routine, because if the world’s _not_ absolutely void and flat, then _why_ does every moment of every day feel like he’s utterly, endlessly, agonizingly bored and lonely?

 

Sure, the boredom is no surprise, really. And, hell, John’s probably _been_ utterly, endlessly, agonizingly lonely since his Mama died, but . . . why, of all times—with her twenty-three years in the blighted earth of this Wasteland—is he feeling it so keenly _now_? Just because an ultra-fine, but ultra- _crazy_ piece of ass has proven to be _at least_ as ultra-crazy as he is ultra-fine (incandescently, almost supernaturally so, in both cases, it should be noted)?

 

And why does the agony of it even matter? In a life rife with agony in some form or other, why does this new torture feel, somehow, like the worst?

 

If there’re answers to any of that, John hasn’t found them, no matter how many bottles he’s plumbed with the fried remains of his liver. No chem seems to take him to that place of enlightened and happy problem-solving that they did just five months ago. Just before he’d allowed a Vaultie-shaped person to make a Vaultie-shaped space in his bed and routine.

 

In his _life_.

 

In his fucking—

 

“Whatever, brother. Whatever,” John mutters under his breath. _Very_ under, because he doesn’t want his bodyguard’s sudden and vertibird-like presence, and all the attendant worry that would come with it. Lately, Fahrenheit’s usually disapproving, semi-disdainful expression has shifted to concern and displeasure, to outright worry and anxiety. At least when she looks at John. And she constantly hovers like the mother John’d already had _might have hovered_ , had she been the hovering sort.

 

But Martha McDonough had _always_ trusted her younger son’s common sense and his ability to handle himself. “Between the Kontos pragmatism and determination, and the McDonough charm and moral compass, you’ll do alright for yourself in this world, Junior. _You’re_ the kinda unstoppable force that’ll always take this awful, old place by storm. Maybe even move it onto a better axis.”

 

“My own Ma just called me an asteroid,” Ryan McDonough’d grown into replying, grinning the McDonough grin that’d made his Mama blush and fluster when his Dad’d done it. And even after they’d been old and married for thirty years, and right up until the hour of her death. When _Ryan_ had grinned at her like that, it’d always made his Mama smile with pride and wistfulness and wonder . . . as if she’d been seeing a miracle she still hadn’t been able to believe she’d had a hand in. “I dunno how to feel about that. I might just cry.”

 

“Hmph. _Crocodile_ tears, ya little smartass,” she’d pretend to grumble, while Ryan would laugh and settle into one of her big, perfect hugs, her head eventually tucked under his chin. As compact as Ryan had been even at his tallest and sturdiest, his Mama had been smaller, still, like a hummingbird left in a nest of wrens.

 

Ryan had never loved _anyone_ as much as he’d loved and would always love her. Never would.

 

 _John’s_ mileage, however, is possibly starting to vary. At least in a lateral way.

 

Because, what else _could_ it be, but mileage variance between _John Hancock’s_ experience, and that of Ryan Michael McDonough? John not being able to sleep or drink or chem—at least not and enjoy those things—because they and everything . . . _his life_ had brought its A-game since the Vaultie had entered it nearly nine months ago? Then had taken a nose-dive into the latrine when the Vaultie had vanished?

 

John still agrees with Ryan’s certainty that he’d never love anyone like he’d loved his Mama. The devastated nineteen years old he’d once been, had found that first core-deep certainty at his mother’s graveside. Had cemented it while trying to wrangle a broken father—who’d been less than a year from his own grave, at that point—and a burgeoning megalomaniac of a brother.

 

Neither Ryan nor his Dad’d had any idea just how much of Guy’s bullshit and wrong-heartedness Martha McDonough had quietly, vigilantly kept in-check, until after she’d passed . . . and then, neither man’d had any idea how nor even the reserves to continue doing so, in the distraction of their grief. To Ryan’s eventual despair, over a decade later, and to the lament of every ghoul that’d once called Diamond City home. . . .

 

No, John will never love anyone the way he’d loved his amazing and indomitable mother. But he’s starting to believe it’s possible to love someone else in a dramatically different way—for good or ill—with the same depth and fervor and unswerving focus.

 

It’s possible, he understands and believes—is starting to know in his gut—for his life to have a center that’s not a giant-ass, overarching ethos, or an entire town, or a disenfranchised group . . . but a single (broken, messy, train-wreck, _beautiful_ ) person. Maybe not a soulmate, but still a person _he’d_ chosen. A spirit as kindred as any’d ever be, and a better, brighter fit than any other he’d likely ever meet.

 

The only fit John can imagine ever wanting, even after so brief a taste.

 

And this fit, this match—John’s _choice_ and his . . . _kindred spirit_ , the second and probably only other he’d get after his Mama—had walked away for reasons unknown, but not exactly difficult to extrapolate.

 

Despite all the stoicism and badassery, Nathan Redcastle is a diehard romantic at his core, as evidenced by the shattered, bleeding heart shining out of his mad, miserable eyes. And that romantic nature means he’s probably at least somewhat invested in all the soulmate hoo-raw . . . even after the end of his world and everyone else’s.

 

Even if the late Mrs. Badass hadn’t been Nathan’s soulmate, she’d been _his_. His choice and the person he’d stuck by until the end of the world, and beyond. The person he’d chosen to be his center and with whom he’d started a family—the safe-place he’d trusted to keep and protect that ridiculously vulnerable heart of his.

 

And losing her to Armageddon or to foul play or to fucking _time_ —to _whatever_ . . . all John knows is that she’s dead and with her, someone named _Shaun_ , who John suspects had been the Vaultie’s _son_ —had done to the Vaultie what losing _his_ kindred and chosen spirit had done to Ryan McDonough’s father.

 

It’d sapped him, hollowed him out . . . and killed him in all the ways that had counted, but for the metabolic ones.

 

Until it’d killed him in _that way_ , too.

 

And with the way the Vaultie’s been living, like a big, damn hero—or a crashing, burning juggernaut—he won’t have to worry about metabolic _anything_ , sooner rather than later. There’s no end to the people he’s pissed-off and discommoded, and eventually, even a paranoid, near-legendary killing-machine’s got to sleep with _both_ eyes closed.

 

In all the free time John’s had since no longer having a hot, horny, nigh insatiable Vaultie to fuck to throat-sore incoherence—and not being able to satisfy the growing, famine-pang _need_ for _his_ chosen center with anyone else or even his own damn hand—John’s come up with several million theories on why Nathan Redcastle had left. Theories which spring directly from his admittedly sketched-in understanding of the man.

 

But it’s one of his initial theories (also known as “The Probable Jackpot Theories”) that John’s backing as the winner: The Vaultie’s gone and is _still_ going off some emotional deep-end for reasons that undoubtedly make all the sense to _him_ , and him alone. And he’s working through whatever issues he’s fielding by the slaughter of baddies and saving of innocents. Probably an excessive amount of the former, though, in relation to the latter. Nathan Redcastle is _not_ a man of happy mediums—or happy _anything_ —and moderation. Other motivations aside, John’s come to understand, the Vaultie likes ending bad people and is _eerily_ good at that . . . as if he’d been born to it and had never known a moment of peace in his life. He gets at least as much of a release from killing bad people as he does from saving ordinary folk who need saving.

 

So, of course, in a time of uncertainty and consternation for him—and, also, ball-shriveling _fear_ , John senses—he’s doing the thing that makes the most sense and has always been a sure-bet.

 

But as exasperated, hurt, and angry as John is at and about the damned Vaultie . . . he’s far more _worried and afraid_ for the Vaultie.

 

After all, when it comes to folk like Nathan, there’s a thin line between heeding a calling and embarking on a suicide-quest. And it isn’t as if _dying_ a big, damn hero—since he hadn’t been able to be a live-one when it’d counted for the family he’d loved—wouldn’t appeal to the Vaultie’s romantic nature and his extremely fatalistic bent.

 

It’s not exactly a conundrum to someone who’s spent any time with Nathan Redcastle that the man sees death, either dishing it out or falling prey to it, as his only marketable skill and sterling trait. As the best of what he’s got left to offer.

 

“Goddamnit, Vaultie,” John grits, leaning over his balcony rail and closing his eyes on the spinning tableau of citizenry below, before straightening up just a touch unsteadily. The empty bottle in his hand doesn’t get sacrificed to clumsiness or the instinct to throw it, and once he feels slightly steadier, he goes back into his office.

 

He shuffles to his desk and stands the evening’s emptied second bottle next to the first and a mostly-empty bottle of Daytripper. Then he grabs the evening’s third and unopened bottle and sweeps a bunch of inhalers—either Jet or Jetfuel . . . assholes could _at least_ make the damn canisters different shades of goddamn red—into the tricorne and resumes his shuffling. To the small bedroom just off the mayor’s office.

 

He boots the slightly ajar door open, not even registering the low lamplight illuminating the small space, because he’s so damned drunk and blurry about the brain. He rarely bothers with the lamps in his bedroom, since he tends to leave the door to the office cracked and that ambient light’s light-enough. But the _Vaultie’d_ had a habit of festooning the bedroom with lamplight, until the room had looked like high-noon. . . .

 

The same Vaultie who’s currently curled in fetal position in John’s bed, completely dressed, though seemingly un-booby-trapped and unarmed.

 

And unshod.

 

Nathan Redcastle is dirty and disheveled about the _everything_ , all frays, rips, and singed edges. And wearing no boots to hide his more-holes-than-socks blue socks. He’s also scruffy-beardy about the jaw, and has tear-washed tracks through grayish dirt-smudges on his cheeks. But otherwise, his expression is as serene as a sleeping saint.

 

John knows, however, that Nathan Redcastle is none of those things.

 

“How’djoo geddin?” he demands: slurred, breathless, and through a numb face. His brain is a white noise-hum of drunken shock and some watchful, always-sober part of him’s utter lack of surprise.

 

The Vaultie doesn’t even take a deeper breath, never mind opening his eyes or moving. “Fahrenheit. She made me give her all my guns and knives and grenades, though. And my brass knuckles. And my booby-traps.” A beat and a soft sigh. “She took my boots, too. I like those boots.”

 

“She’ll take care of your precious boots, Vaultie. All boots’re safe with Fahrenheit, or I’m not the mayor,” John fights through his drunkenness and numb gaping to solemnly enunciate. Then, when those dark, weary, reddened eyes open and lock on him, like a dash of cold water and sobriety, he’s alert. His synapses fire and his nerve-endings sizzle like bacon. Like five months of insulating numbness and detachment have instantly burnt off him and turned to ash. He huffs, then glares in a way that _only_ Nathan Redcastle hadn’t and probably wouldn’t _ever_ be intimidated by. “You fucking prick.”

 

The Vaultie blinks, slow and as if he’s not really all there. Or too done-in to be. “Yeah,” he says, all unhesitating agreement. “Yeeeah.”

 

Then, he closes his irritated-looking eyes again and sighs. Before the sigh’s all done, more tears cut more tracks through more dirt-smudges. His entire face—still handsome, if dirty and gaunt—quivers as if it’s about to shatter.

 

John can only stand and stare as the Vaultie lies there, not moving beyond facial-quivers, soft breaths, and silent tears. Though not a bulky man, he’s definitely not a small one by any means. But he looks small, now. Defenseless and scared and alone. Like a lost child.

 

More lost than anyone John’s ever seen—including the dumb, chemmed-up kid who used to stare at him, helpless and accusing, out of the very few mirrors he’d been unable to avoid completely.

 

“Ah, damnit. Goddamnit,” he groans, shaking his head and kicking off his boots. He crosses the brief space between himself and his bed, pauses on the left side—the Vaultie not only takes up the right side, _John’s_ usual side, but most of the middle, too—staring down at his bed and . . . his Vaultie.

 

With another sigh, he finally drops the tricorne and its payload of chems on the rickety second night-table he’d had Fahrenheit get mere days before the Vaultie had left town. Though Nathan hadn’t said anything about the new piece of furniture at the time, that first night it’d been in residence, he hadn’t let John get a moment’s more rest than it’d taken him to get hard again.

 

Around dawn, they’d both finally passed out. And they’d both been walking gingerly for the next day, at least. Grinning ceaselessly, in John’s case.

 

Frowning at the memory of one of the best nights of his life, John kneels on the edge of the bed, bracing himself with his bottle-hand. The other he lets hover near the Vaultie’s shoulder without settling or even touching.

 

“Jesus, Nathan,” he murmurs, sitting back on his heels. He holds up the bottle as if the other man can see it. “I’m sorry,” he says, though part of him scoffs at the idea he has any reason to apologize.

 

“No, you’re good,” the Vaultie says, choked-flat and strangely even. “You’re _amazing. Wonderful_. You have _nothing_ to be sorry for. Nothing. _You_ aren’t the asshole, here, Johnny.”

 

“Then that’d be a near-first, lemme tell ya, brother.” John snorts. “I’m far from wonderful. And maybe I didn’t do anything wrong this time, but . . . I’m still sorry. Sorry you’re hurtin’ so bad and that you have to find ways to deal with shit _no one_ should have to deal with. I’m sorry that I . . . that _this world_ is so awful and strange and empty for you.”

 

The words taste bitter and it feels like horking up handfuls of caltrops to force them out, even though they’re true. _Especially_ because they’re true.

 

The Vaultie shudders, brief and delicate. “It was. It _was_. But now, it’s not. There are things in the world, in _this world_ — _people_ —who matter to me. John, _you_ . . . you. And I can’t . . . no one who matters to me is ever _safe_. Not ever. I’m never enough to keep them safe. No matter how many dangers I end, ten more crop up to take their places, and I’m just not enough.” He draws a breath that hitches and catches. “I’m so . . . _so_ tired of fighting and killing, only to have to fight and kill even more. And then the things and people that matter are _still_ not safe. _Never_ safe. I _lose them_ , and I only have myself to blame. It hurts _so much_ to keep losing everything I love. But now . . . it hurts even more to not love anything _at all_. Or to tell myself I don’t when I know that’s bullshit and I’m just a fucking coward.”

 

John lets that sink in and process. It burns hotter than rads and is bleaker than he’s prepared for shouldering. It steals the breath from him—the implications of what the Vaultie’s saying . . . hinting at—and makes his heart beat faster and harder, even as it labors under the weight of Nathan Redcastle’s quiet-despairing confession.

 

“Vaultie—Nathan— _sunshine_ . . . that’s a lot to take in. _You_ are a lot to take in,” he says, and the Vaultie . . . _Nathan_ sighs, too, then sniffles, hunching in on himself a bit more. This time, John doesn’t stop himself or even think about it: when he reaches out for Nathan, he makes contact, his hand settling on the tough, reinforced cotton of the frayed jacket, to squeeze Nathan’s shoulder. “Ain’t sayin’ I’m not willin’ or able to, brother . . . just that it’s a lot. And I’m rollin’ and adjustin’ as much and as fast as I’m able. But I hear you. I’m listenin’ and I’ll _keep_ listenin’ and hearin’ as best I can. Just . . .  don’t ever walk away from me like that again. I can’t promise I’ll choose you again and _keep_ choosin’ you if you do.”

 

It’s not a threat or spite, just honesty. John trusts Nathan to be able to tell the difference, even now. It’s a trust that isn’t misplaced: Nathan nods once and some of the tension in his body releases a little.

 

“I understand, John. I—thank you. Thank you.” Nathan’s throat sounds like an old, clogged sink. “You’re a _good_ man. A better person than I ever thought I’d meet again. I’m sorry. Please . . . _please_ forgive me.”

 

John heaves yet another sigh. “I’ll admit this hasn’t been a kick-ass four months, two weeks and six days, brother. I’m not at my best, right now, so I can’t give you any certainties or promises about forgiveness, yet. At least not any kinda timeframe for it. And not before we seriously hash-out you leavin’ like ya did. But you don’t do another runner, and we’ll be square sooner, rather than later. I like you _far_ too much to _stay_ pissed out of pettiness.”

 

“You could. You probably _should_.” Nathan’s laugh is rueful and pained and tired, like a despairing sob. The sound makes John’s entire body ache, but especially his chest and behind his eyes. And his _arms_.

 

John’s suddenly certain that his arms’d been made and meant for only one thing. One, great work, and . . . he can’t _let them_ be about their calling until a few important things get said and squared.

 

“Shoulda, coulda, woulda . . . didn’t. Don’t. _Won’t_.” He shrugs, though Nathan’s still three-quarters turned away, his eyes squinched tight-shut. John’s voice rasps and chuffs when he speaks again. “I _missed you_ , sunshine. A lot. I was hurt that you left without sayin’ farewell. And . . . worried I might never see you again.”

 

Nathan shudders so hard and for so long, John starts thinking maybe it’s some sort of seizure or convulsion . . . but then the shudders slow, lessen in intensity, and become mere persistent shivering.

 

“I missed you, too, John,” Nathan says, his voice creaking and cracking and raw. “So, _so_ much. Bein’ away was the only thing that hurt worse than bein’ back does.”

 

John winces. And even though he can easily guess the answer, he holds up the bottle again—shaking until the sloshes are unmistakable and loud—and asks: “Need t’get fucked-up, tonight, sweetheart?” he asks, gentle and tender. Nathan rocks his head briefly in refusal, his grown-out, none-too-clean hair rustling on John’s pillow.

 

“No, thanks.”

 

“Alright, then.” John puts the bottle on the night-table, on the far-side of the Jetfuel. “Alright. What _do_ you need, tonight?”

 

Nathan draws a long, slow, shaky breath. “I just want . . . I wanna sleep. To close my eyes and not know anything, for a while. I’ve been awake for so long, Johnny. Everything’s weird and bright and my heart won’t stop racing.”

 

 _Too many uppers for far too long. Jesus, I’m not even sure I wanna_ know _how long_ , John thinks, followed by another dash of figurative ice-water: this one reminding him that no matter how tough, durable, and hardy he is, Nathan Redcastle’s still human and prey to the weaknesses that come with that state. Like ODing. And heart failure. Or strokes. And that, at one point, Nathan had been keeping up with John’s— _a ghoul’s_ —chem consumption for most of two months, is alarming in retrospect. That Nathan’s likely been continuing that consumption and possibly escalating it for _nearly five more_ months is . . . horrifying.

 

Nathan Redcastle doesn’t do anything by halves, that’s for sure.

 

Frowning even deeper, John lays down behind Nathan’s shivering form, spooning close and draping an arm over his waist. The other gets wedged under his own pillow and Nathan’s head. Then John takes Nathan’s left hand with his own in a tight, fingers-laced hold, their arms aligned. Nathan doesn’t hesitate to cleave close and pull John closer, still. John squeezes his hand even tighter, only absently noticing that the strong wrist pressed to his own is utterly bare.

 

Wrapped-up as he is in Nathan’s long-missed presence, John files that bit of info away for later consideration. He tucks his face between Nathan’s neck and shoulder and breathes in deeply. Nathan doesn’t smell like the best thing ever—all dirty clothes and outdoors, gunpowder and metal, blood and B.O.—but then again . . . he kind of _does_. He smells like he’s _alive and here_ , in John’s life and bed, again. Maybe in his routine again, too, if they can sort the rest of that nuts-and-bolts shit out later.

 

And Nathan’ll _never_ not be in John’s . . . heart.

 

“Sounds to me like you need to detox, sunshine,” he murmurs. The warm brush of lips and words makes Nathan shiver and whimper. “Crash for a good, long time. Get lotsa sleep.”

 

“Nightmares, though,” is the mumbled reply: miserable and defeated-sounding through more shudders, but also barely conscious. John holds Nathan tighter, kissing his neck and the corner of his jaw.

 

“Nah, brother. I’ll protect ya from those. Mayor’s honor.”

 

A long silence follows, during which Nathan begins to drift, his body relaxing further, until it’s almost limp.

 

“’M sorry I ran away, John.” This apology, heart-felt and slurred, rouses John from a tipsy-contented half-doze. He smiles and presses that smile to Nathan’s neck.

 

“So’m I. But it’s okay. Or it will be.” John holds on tighter, still, and Nathan makes a soft sound that’s half-whimper, half-snort, and all-surrendered. “It will be. I’m real glad you’re back, sunshine.”

 

“Me, too. I—” Nathan pauses to gulp down a shuddering breath. “I feel safer when I’m next to you. Happier. I _breathe_ better. And when your arms are around me, sometimes . . . I can sleep.”

 

“Then, go on, and sleep, Nathan.” John closes his eyes and just inhales. Absorbs Nathan’s warmth and presence and lets his arms revel in the fulfillment and satisfaction of a calling well-heeded and well-fulfilled. And the next silence that falls remains unbroken until Nathan starts to snore in earnest, his body a dead, trusting-warm weight in John’s arms.

 

That trust, unhesitating and fathoms deeper than any abyss, says a lot. But it says one thing in particular quite a bit louder than all the other stuff.

 

“Ditto, love. I love you, too,” John whispers, barely louder than a soft exhale. Then he holds on tight and vigilant throughout the night and most of the morning. Drifting occasionally, but never falling completely asleep: keeping a lookout for errant nightmares and guarding his Vaultie’s long, long- _needed_ rest.

 

 

_TBC next Friday in: ** ~~4B. . . BUT NOT QUITE~~**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued in the second-half of the chapter: ~~**4B. . . . BUT NOT QUITE**~~


	5. 4B. . . . BUT NOT QUITE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Vaultie disappeared. Five-ish months later . . . the Vaultie returned. He’s been in a _bad_ way and he’s not the only one. Some emotional baggage is unpacked, some laws are laid-down, and some choices are made. Rather, two people get chosen. And, for a little while, two people hold absolutely nothing back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes/Warnings: SPOILERS. Emotional baggage, trauma, honesty, understanding, and resolution . . . and a second (final) chance. Angst, hurt/comfort, banter, humor . . . boots. Enthusiastic and sober consent to sexual contact, acts, and intercourse. Rough sex. Masochism. Briefly reciprocated light sadism due to altered mental state. Implied tearing and blood during sex, but no graphic details. Achieving sexual release _because_ of weathering the aforementioned pain. Implied damage, aftercare (stimpaks and time to recover), and attendant affection.

**~~4B. . . . BUT NOT QUITE~~ **

 

Early in the afternoon, edging-up on three days since his prodigal Vaultie’s return, John gets back to his office after a visit to the Third Rail’s backroom to debrief and pay one of his many and far-flung informants.

 

Despite having left Fahrenheit behind again, with standing orders to guard Nathan with her life—and despite her glowering objections to John walking around so consistently unescorted—considering the Vaultie’s wet-kitten vulnerability, bone-weariness, and persistent unconsciousness, John’s relief at being able to lay eyes on Nathan once more is great, indeed.

 

But apparently, despite her eye-rolling and dramatic sighs and mumbling about not being a “Vaultie-sitter,” she’s taking her job seriously, and has since John charged her with Nathan’s safety. Not even the air between Fahrenheit’s chosen post and John’s office is disturbed, and there’s no sense that anyone’s been in the five hours since he’d left.

 

After shutting his office door and leaning against it for a few second wind-moments—taking in the slightly stirred and electric quality to the air, like ozone on the back of his tongue and nitrogen in his blood—he detours to his desk to grab something that’s been collecting dust for months. Then he saunters to his bedroom, where he’d left Nathan deeply asleep, but no longer snoring: dead to the world and to John’s departure.

 

John’s Vaultie is now awake, of course. Deep into something on his Pip-boy, but otherwise naked as the day he’d been born, sitting tailor-style in John’s bed. He’s clean as a whistle and still damp, his grown-out hair not yet spiked-up and thatchy, but hanging almost in his bright, focused eyes. Other than one bedside lamp—on John’s night-table, wisely away from Nathan’s, on which still sit the Jetfuel and unopened booze—the only light besides what’s sneaking in around John’s lean frame is from the Pip-boy.

 

Even in its weird, sterile, Old World-tech glow, Nathan is gorgeous: all burnished-copper skin and shadows-dark hair, effortless grace and not a single wasted gesture or motion. He’s also dramatic angles and stark definition—mostly because if left to his own absent-minded, austere devices, he’ll live on nothing but booze, rations, and chems.

 

Martha McDonough might’ve said he needed feeding-up. Ryan McDonough would’ve agreed, while gaping and drooling. John _also_ agrees and makes a note to pay more attention to his Vaultie’s health. Though John can and has subsisted on nothing but ambient rads, in a pinch and when he can’t be bothered to eat, Nathan doesn’t have that option.

 

But, even underfed and on the lean-side for a man of his build, Nathan is. . . .

 

 _Damn, I might just have you beat, Ma. I’d murder every damn person I’d ever met that wasn’t_ you _to keep_ this _boy. To keep my Vaultie. So help us all, it’s a good thing he and I_ ain’t _soulmates, if nearly losing him makes me this crazy, already. It’s a good thing. . . ._

 

John smiles but doesn’t clear his throat or otherwise announce himself. Nathan knows and had undoubtedly known of his return since the first floor-landing had creaked with John’s footsteps.

 

“This game is boring, stupid, and awful . . . and I’m losing very badly at it. So, your timing’s excellent, as always,” Nathan notes as there’s a flicker and a rather sad sound from his Pip-boy. Shaking his head, Nathan puts the damn thing into rest-mode, or whatever, and takes it off his wrist, placing it on John’s night-table. When he then looks over at John, his eyes are calm and solemn, his smile small and hopeful. “Hi, John.”

 

John nods and tosses the object from his desk drawer at Nathan, who catches it without even shifting his gaze, let alone much of anything else.

 

“For protecting my stash,” John clarifies when Nathan doesn’t even look down at the not-inconsiderable bag of caps. “Wise decision, turning on Bobbi like that. I respect a man who recognizes the better horse to back.”

 

“I didn’t care who was the better horse, John. It takes a helluva lot more than caps and clout to earn my loyalty. Bobbi-no-nose couldn’t earn me if she lived for a thousand years.” Nathan shrugs, still holding the bag of caps as if they mean nothing to him but another bit of weight to bear up under.

 

John looks down at his shiny boots for a minute. “Well, she _mighta_ lived a thousand years, if you hadn’t backed a horse so firmly.”

 

“She might’ve lived a thousand years if she _hadn’t_ tried to fuck over the wrong man.”

 

John doesn’t have to see Nathan’s expression to know that by _the wrong man_ , Nathan doesn’t mean himself. That makes John feel weird, and warm and fizzy. But instead of letting himself get carried off on that heady feeling, he simply notes it and stores it away for later. He keeps his cool and calm and ease, but mostly because he’s staring at the damn bag of caps and not Nathan’s handsome, lost-earnest face.

 

“Bobbi had her reasons for her choices. Just like everyone does.”

 

Nathan shrugs, dismissive and disinterested. “And if her target had been anyone but you, maybe those reasons might have mattered to me. Maybe she’d still be walking around.” He places the bag of caps on the night-table, too, next to the Pip-Boy, then hunches forward dejectedly, shoulders slumped and forearms on his knees. “I'm sorry, John. For leaving, for getting mixed-up with Bobbi in the first place . . . for everything.”

 

“Hey, this is Goodneighbor. No hard feelings, brother.” John’s the one to shrug, this time, his narrowed gaze drifting to the Pip-Boy. In the awkward, expectant silence that draws out, the only anxiety louder than Nathan’s is John’s own.

 

“Is . . . that all that’s left between us, now that I’ve fucked everything up? A lack of hard feelings and . . . that’s it?”

 

John winces at Nathan’s meek-small voice and too-even tone. “No, Nathan. _You know_ that’s never been _all_ that’s between us. Not even when I shanked Finn for goin’ heavy on you, your first night in town. And that’s why you doin’ a runner wrecked me so bad,” he says, quiet but rough. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Nathan shiver and slump a bit more. He can hear the long, slow breath the other man draws in and in and _in_ , then lets out in fits and gusts.

 

“Tell me how to make it right, John,” he whispers, shaky and desperate—utterly without pride or reluctance. “ _Can_ I make it right? Will you let me?”

 

At last, John meets Nathan’s gaze again. Like his whispers, there’s no pride in those eyes, nor reluctance. Just dedication and determination to do and be whatever John asks of him. Repentant, if that’s what John demands.

 

Or simply absent, if John asks _that_ of him.

 

Frowning and stalking over to his bed and its distractingly naked occupant—holding that widening, afraid-to-hope gaze—John stops and kneels on the thin-ish mattress, right in front of Nathan. Leans in close, until their foreheads are almost touching.

 

“Bottom line, Vaultie: I'm not the kinda guy who eases into or out of things. I rip off the bandage . . . or I leave it on. No in-betweens. Do or don't. I don’t leave anything or anyone up in the air, ever. And I don’t appreciate _bein’_ left up in the air, either. Let alone for almost five months. You get me?" John grits, still rough, still quiet, and thrumming with tension.

 

Nathan nods once, his eyes simply a dark-brimming glitter with John so close. “Yes,” he breathes, choked and thick.

 

“Good. That’s real good and I believe you, y’know?” John shrugs off his frock-coat and vest, then places his hands on Nathan’s strong shoulders lightly, but firmly. “You’re a lotta things, Nathan Redcastle, but a liar ain’t hardly one of ‘em. And when you say we’re on the same page about somethin’, I believe that. And I believe _you_ , without question. So, I’mma keep the sermonizin’ on why runnin’ off like you did was a dick-move, and how bad it fuckin’ _hurt_ me, to a minimum. But I’m gonna lay my cards on the table, just the same. And _you_ can decide to do the same, or fold, and fuck right off back to wherever it is you went five months ago.”

 

Tightening his grip and increasing his pressure on Nathan’s shoulders, John _does_ let their foreheads touch, now. For several minutes, they simply lean like that, close and sharing air. Resting with and basking in the person they’d chosen once and might get to choose again.

 

“You leavin’ like you did was almost too much. To survive, to accept, and to _go on, bearin’ up under_. I can’t do it again, Nathan. _Never again_. And I won’t. Not even for you,” John finally says, laying down the law with all the steel and honesty in him. When he doesn’t follow-up with anything else, Nathan nods again, this time fervently and a lot, only stopping when John kisses him hard and long.

 

And when John breaks the kiss and pulls away to look Nathan in the eyes, they’re both panting and shaking, and Nathan’s eyes don’t flutter open for at least two minutes afterwards.

 

“I was _choosin’ you,_ damnit, and I thought you were choosin’ me back,” John half-whispers, half-accuses. “Then, Fahrenheit tells me you teamed-up with lyin’-ass Bobbi-no-nose to break into my storage depot. Only to turn on her like blinkin’, when you find out who owns the damn place.

 

“But instead of comin’ to me and tellin’ me what happened—trustin’ me to _get it_ . . . get _you_ and _trust_ you, like I already had been, you bolt. Run all over the goddamn Commonwealth, raisin’ Hell and causin’ mayhem, only to slink back when you realize that maybe you _don’t_ have any other decent choices. Or maybe . . . maybe them other choices only _look_ decent, but ain’t actually worth _shit_ when held up against what you _ran from_.”

 

There’re tears filling Nathan’s eyes ceaselessly, now, and rolling down his cheeks. John wants to kiss them away and hold his Vaultie close. But he _needs_ to say his piece before that can happen. Before they go any further.

 

“Everyone makes mistakes, Nathan, and sometimes huge ones. I’m livin’ proof of that. But _that_ mistake? Walkin’ away like _you_ don’t feel _shit_ for me and like _I_ don’t mean shit to _you_?” John nods his head, slowly and not quite regretfully. “You only get _one_ of that fuck-up, with me. Not ‘cuz I’ll ever stop wantin’ you and carin’ about you, but because I can’t choose someone who’ll only choose _me_ after exhaustin’ all the other options and grudgingly settlin’ on ol’ John as bein’ the least awful one. I _need_ to be your _sure-bet_ , Vaultie . . . or nothing at all. Your first choice and your _only_ , not your also-ran consolation prize.”

 

Nathan’s eyes close tight and he shakes his head in vehement denial, tears rolling and falling faster than ever when he stills once more and opens his again-reddened eyes.

 

“You’re _not_ that to me, John. Not at all—I swear.” Nathan’s sniffling and choking on words as they rush to tumble from him, raw and sincere and as naked as the rest of him. “You’re everything I chose, am choosing, and will _always_ choose, if that’s even still an option. And even if it’s _not_ , I guess. Even when I was running from that choice and certainty, I never stopped choosing you and I never will. You’re _everything_ , Johnny. And as scary as once again having an _everything_ is . . . I’d rather have you and be scared that I’ll lose you somehow—live _terrified_ every minute of every day—than _not have you_ and _never_ be scared again. You’re worth any amount of fear and vulnerability and worry . . . worth the way my heart hasn’t slowed down once since the night we met. Even worth the wall-to-wall nightmares where I lose you over and over and can’t do a damn thing to prevent that. You’re worth . . . any bad things. _Every_ bad thing. And worth all the _good ones_ , too. No, you _are_ all the good ones.”

 

Which kindles more of that burning ache that makes John’s ribcage feel like a closing, heated vise out to crush his heart and lungs.

 

Barely able to draw an adequate breath, he leans in to kiss Nathan again, but as softly and tenderly as he can manage, lingering despite Nathan’s shaken gasps and hitches and moans.

 

“You’re worth the same, sunshine. Worth all that and more. You _are all that and more_. And I need to know that if I choose you—choose to make you the center of _everything_ , again . . . that you won’t disappear. I can’t let anyone, even you, destroy me like that twice. But if you gimme your word now, I’ll believe in it and you till the end of the world. The _next_ end-of-the-world, that is.”

 

Nathan sniffles and wraps his arms around John’s waist, clutching tight and panicky. “I won’t run from you ever again. I won’t disappear. Not ever again.”

          

John bears a completely willing and accommodating Nathan down to the mattress and pointedly pins him with his slighter weight. “Never. Again. And you’ve got _my_ word that I won’t run or disappear, either. _I choose you, Nathan Redcastle_. I’ll choose you _every day_ , and I’ll never choose or want different,” he promises—gives his oath, leaning his forehead against Nathan’s once more.

 

John can feel Nathan’s open-wide, burning-pure gaze on him, nonetheless: endless, ravenous, and a yawning chasm waiting to be occupied. To be tamed with trust. And lavished with tenderness. And nurtured with affection. And. . . .

 

“I choose you, too, John. Won’t ever choose _anyone else_ ,” Nathan agrees huskily, only just managing to add a quiet, last few words into the muffling thoroughness of John’s possessive kiss. “There hasn’t . . . _been anyone else_ , either. No one.”

 

John groans, happy and _hungry_ , his resumed kiss going from tender to fierce. Demanding and rough. Nathan moans in reply, a low, snickering purr in his chest and rumbling up his throat, as he submits to John’s claiming-taking kiss. His thighs wrap tight and desperate around John’s hips and he bucks up and grinds his dick, huge and already half-hard—getting harder—against John’s stomach. For his part, John thrusts and grinds right back, all but tearing open his fly while scrabbling at his night-table drawer for the jar of slick he’s barely touched in months.

 

He’s only successful at one of those objectives and thrusts his dick against Nathan’s until they’re both wet from the Vaultie’s precome. Soon, John’s thrusts are slipping and sliding lower and back, past Nathan’s balls and toward the first home he’s had in nearly twenty-five years.

 

“Yeah. Oh, _fuck_ , yeah,” Nathan breaks their kiss to whisper, shaky-breaky and hopeful-fearful, all of him opening up to John in ways which, even with familiarity, are still remarkable to the point of being miraculous, to John. He takes Nathan’s mouth with another kiss, slow and thorough, his tongue miming what his dick always wants to be doing to any of his Vaultie’s available orifices.

 

John’s favorite style of fucking is slow and intense—rough, too, if that’s what gets the job done. But right now, after . . . everything, all he wants is to shove his dick into Nathan’s body fast and repeatedly. Stake his claim so indelibly, anyone even looking at Nathan Redcastle in passing for the next five thousand years would automatically know that _this Vaultie_ is all John’s.

An unmistakable: _Look . . . but not_ too _long. And definitely don’t_ touch.

 

Nathan chuckles when John’s possessive-ravenous rumble starts sounding more like a growl. Then he breaks their kiss to smirk up at John, hungry-crazy-wild-hopeful. He catches John’s absently flailing right hand and pulls it to his mouth, pressing tender, reverent, feather-light kisses to John’s knuckles and fingertips, before sucking John’s first two fingers into his mouth for licking and teasing and wetting.

 

He clearly wants— _needs_ —and is unequivocally advocating for a dry, hard, _rough_ fuck well beyond what he and John have previously indulged in.

 

John is . . . _not_ un-down with that, per se. . . .

 

But as much as he likes getting his Vaultie off, he _refuses_ to dick Nathan Redcastle as hard as they both obviously have in mind, without something more forgiving than spit to slick things up. Even when getting Nathan off means inflicting pain that edges right up against all the hurt John’s psyche can cope with causing _his sunshine_ , he draws an absolute, uncrossable line at inflicting irresponsible, selfish _harm_.

 

This, because John’s outer-limits of acceptable pain-play are clearly _not even close_ to the anything-goes- _worst_ his sunshine would happily take and take and _take_. _Beg for more of_ , until he was sobbing ecstatically and coming dry from _getting_ all the _more_ his body could take—and then some—only to then pass-out . . . smiling sweet and trusting. _Innocent,_ somehow; like a cherub.

 

John can cope with catering to his Vaultie’s preferences as long as said Vaultie’s getting off _without_ being seriously or permanently harmed. Contemplating doing anything beyond that makes John feel like he’s going crazy in a very, _very_ bad way. So, despite the churned up, sudden _instinct_ to play exactly as hard as Nathan wants, John vows to keep his control and common sense. To _not_ let Nathan’s scorching hotness and scorching-hot _need_ make him lose his head in a way that’d cause real damage or trauma.

 

Though, it’s not easy keeping that or anything else in mind when Nathan’s fellating his fingers so skillfully and, as always, _shamelessly_. And with that long-missed, direct, and unwavering eye-contact.

 

John’s missed those eyes and the way staring into them has always and _will always_ feel like falling up into eternity and drowning in the night sky.

 

“Fuck, sunshine,” he groans, pushing his fingers further in until Nathan’s throat works to suppress his gag-reflex. Instantly even more turned-on, John pushes back a little further, still. “It’s a cryin’ shame my dick can’t be up your ass and down your throat at the same time. Well, maybe it’s not _really_ a shame, since I’d probably kill us both when I came. I’d drown _you_ and simultaneously burst every blood vessel in my brain.”

 

Nathan snorts and smiles around John’s fingers, his dark eyes shining and glowing, content and _happy_. Happy.

 

And, once again, there and gone—only to be remembered well-past this opportune moment for commenting—John suddenly, but absently notices that the faded, gray-hued scrap that Nathan had been using for a gauntlet is gone. But he only notices its absence this second time because the scrap has now been _replaced_ by one of John’s favorite blue-and-white checkered bandannas. Long-since fetched-up missing, Nathan’s apparently found the damn thing somewhere, all clean and pristine. And he’s decided to celebrate his find by intricately and tightly wrapping it around his wrist as his new soulphrase gauntlet.

 

Were John occupying _any other_ sort of moment, his mind would be consciously—not just _sub_ consciously—hypothesizing. Maybe even _asking_ Nathan what-all that even means.

 

But John’s _not_ in any other moment . . . he’s in this one. Thus, it’s not at all surprising that he’s practically blind and insensate to anything and everything that isn’t Nathan’s _very_ determined and winnowed sexual focus. He’s lost to that intent and intense eye-contact Nathan’s maintaining. And _maintaining_ , sultry and sensual as undiluted sin, until he slowly frees John’s fingers with an obscene and satisfied slurp. Then he shoves John’s hand downward. John quickly takes the hint and levers himself up on one arm and kneels between Nathan’s instantly spread thighs.

 

After pushing—barely even nudging, actually—Nathan’s left leg up and out, John doesn’t bother taking the slow-route of one-finger-at-a-time to open him up. He pushes both wet fingers into Nathan’s demanding-claiming body, slow but steady. Implacable. The relieved and broken-open groan that sounds from Nathan’s soul sets John to shivering. It drives him half out of his mind with need that’s keener and more voracious than he’s ever experienced even for _Nathan Redcastle_.

 

Not that Nathan’s tight-hot-gorgeous body isn’t also contributing _greatly_ to this feverish-sweet insanity.

 

“ _Please, yes, Johnny_ ,” Nathan moans and gasps into the kiss he bobs up to steal, his hands desperate and reverent on John’s cheeks, trembling and damp. Then they drop to John’s untucked shirt . . . then under it to John’s open fly. Nathan frantically strokes John’s poking-out dick, and cups, squeezes, and tugs on his balls. Immediately following that is the loud-affronted rip of slightly-ragged denim. Then, scraps of the now-useless denim are shoved down and away, and Nathan’s big, rough-needy hands are on John’s ass. Squeezing urgently and trying to pull John closer.

 

John doesn’t have to _re_ -prioritize; the damn denims don’t even make it onto his priorities-list, let alone high enough to rival Nathan Redcastle’s dick-greed. “Ya want it bad, sunshine?” he murmurs on Nathan’s wet-swollen lips, then licks them teasingly. Nathan whimpers and clutches at him tighter.

 

“ _Need_ it _. So bad, Johnny_ ,” he pants, all hot, gusting breath and shaking-shaken body. He’s vise-tight even just around two of John’s fingers. He’s _Heaven_ , as always, and John’s dick is starting to feel forgotten and left out. “You need to be in me _right now_ , John Hancock. _Please? Now._ Need you _now. . ._.”

 

“Ya got me. Always. And in case ya haven’t noticed, I’m already ticklin’ prostate, love.” John then crooks his fingers and does exactly that. Just for the soft, high gasps Nathan makes in response while the rest of him quakes and tremors.

 

“Please,” he manages between gasps, once again without art or pride, but with all the wanton sensuality in _every_ universe. “Five months. All I wanted and all I needed was _you_. With me, on me, in me. Not toys or my fingers . . . _you_. Just you. Just . . . it’s been _so long_ , John, and I need this. Need _you_. _Please_.”

 

“Anything, sunshine. _Everything_. Missed you _so bad. Need you_ so bad,” John replies, plain and with more truth and dedication than he’s said anything since his final _I love you forever, Mama,_ spoken during his final graveside visit, more than ten years ago.

 

Though, as he’d promised himself when laying _Ryan Michael McDonough_ to rest—shortly before that final goodbye to the mother they’d shared—he acknowledges his past and his pain, and that without either, _John Hancock_ wouldn’t exist. He _accepts_ this but doesn’t linger on any of it. He lets it go and focuses on the wonder yearning up toward him, and enveloping him in warmth and welcome, trust and joy.

 

Grinning and probably glowing, himself—goddamn rads—John bends Nathan in half, pushes his legs wide, and angles himself as best as he can to lick, tongue-fuck, and nip at Nathan’s asshole, sloppy and happy and _thorough_.

 

“Fuck—ah, _fuck, JOHN_!” the Vaultie wails, loud and broken and utterly lacking in either humility or reserve. He clenches tight around John’s tongue and spreads his thighs wider, moaning and grabbing his balls to keep them out of the way. And also for the sort of rough handling that’s enough to make John wince, even as Nathan begins groaning and moaning _fuck_ and _yeah_ and **_JOHN_** and _pleeeeease_. . . .

 

It’s really that given-over, reverently-hissed _pleeeeease_ that does John in. That bumps _getting my Vaultie good and wet and slippery by tonguing the tight confines of that perfect ass,_ a good few rungs below: _getting my Vaultie good and wet and slippery by several consecutive and massive loads shot in the tight confines of that perfect ass_.

 

Even before John’s conscious mind has agreed that this is the best plan of action, he’s already shifted into position, bent and spread a wide-eyed Nathan even more, and is poised to breach. He spits into the palm of his free hand and gets his dick as wet as spit’s going to get it and meets Nathan’s bright, awe-filled eyes.

 

“Ya sure ya don’t want real slick? Otherwise, you’re gonna be rawer than raw even before we’re done, never mind for the next few days after.”

 

Nathan’s eyes flutter shut for a few moments and his _smile_ . . . is beatific. Transcendent. “If you think you’ve got dick enough and _skill_ enough to wreck me like _that_ , Mayor Hancock, bring it on.”

 

John grins—it’s half-smirk, really—and leans down to kiss Nathan with tenderness that trembles and yearns.

 

“My sunshine,” he murmurs, and feels Nathan’s grin curve against his own.

 

“My Johnny.”

 

Smirking, John braces and positions himself quickly, then goes in at ramming speed. Not just because he knows it’ll still feel as incredible as it did nearly half a year ago—and it _does_ —but because it’s what they’ve both been wanting and needing. And it’s what Nathan’ll _always_ want and need: ecstasy being rung from him by a rich, measured twining of escalating _agony_ , like an exquisitely beautiful and wrenching duet.

 

John has no more doubts that he’s uniquely equipped for and suited to making Nathan Redcastle both content and happy. He no longer doubts this divine and rewarding calling—and not simply because they’re such kindred and complimentary spirits, but because _John Hancock_ has become the wellspring of Nathan Redcastle’s sweetest bliss and sublime torment, his darkest serenity and basest satiation. And _Nathan Redcastle_ is unambiguously ecstatic to have this be so in perpetuity.

 

 _Nathan is happy_ . . . not merely because his need for pleasure and pain together are being tended to, but because _John_ is the one who’s tending to the need. And tending to it with pitch-perfect determination and dedication. Nathan gets off on John’s dick not just because he’s being fucked just right. He’s getting off on John’s dick because he’s getting fucked by _just the right person_. And _John_ has never been more determined, dedicated, and ecstatic to provide Nathan with _all_ his dick-related wants and needs.

 

And all his companionship-related ones, as well.

 

It’s the consistency and quality of that second collection of need, at least as much as the first, that makes _John’s sunshine_ shine all the brighter when they’re together. Makes him _glow_ , warm and mellow and recharged, after they fuck and even when they’re just chilling out together.

 

Nathan continues to wail and whimper below John, and spasm and flutter around him. His eyes, ringed with dark, tear-wet lashes, are scrinched tight-shut in his red, tear-wet face. John doesn’t even have to work to rein in his focus. He braces himself on Nathan’s calves and doesn’t pull out even a little, or otherwise move. His admiring eyes tick from one glorious sight to another: Nathan’s bitten-swollen-slick lips; his heaving chest and washboard abs; his flushed and straining thighs; and his enviably big and pretty dick.

 

That latter cleaves to Nathan, redder than Satan’s heart, drooling precome like it’s a leaky faucet. John decides and makes a mental note to work on his bendiness, with the ultimate goal of being able to fuck and suck his Vaultie simultaneously, at some point in the very-near future.

 

“ _Move_ , John,” Nathan gasps, his wet, wide eyes open, and glazed with brilliant desperation and endless longing. He licks those pretty, plush lips and his eyes flutter shut once more, his entire body _giving_ around John’s dick. _Under his body_. And in so final and unmistakable a way, John nearly _does_ force himself serious damage- _deeper_ and just comes. Until he dies, and maybe Nathan does, too. “Fuck me _hard_.”

 

Walking a knife’s edge of restraint, John closes his eyes and takes a few steadying breaths. Around him, Nathan still twitches and flutters and _ripples_ and . . . _he is_. . . .

 

“Between the lack of real lube and neither of us exactly bein’ in our right minds . . . I’d tear you apart, Nathan,” John admits, because he probably would. Because he’s been wanting _so bad_ and for so long. The need that’s hooked its claws into his balls, blood, and soul is like chem _addiction_ , which John’s never _really_ understood until this exact moment. “Whatever this’s tryna be right now, it’s what we _both want_. More’n anythin’ and to the point of _adios, self-control and good judgment_.” John huffs a strained laugh and _squinches_ his eyes shut, too. “You’re askin’ me to _tear you apart_ , sunshine. And givin’ me blanket permission to do it.”

 

“Yes,” Nathan says calmly, almost half a minute after John’s apologetic admission. His voice is firm and strong, though with a needy, hungry, _dangerous_ huskiness that makes John open his eyes. Nathan’s utterly unshielded gaze is like a floodlight on John’s face, hotter than perpetual rads. “Yes, I am. I’m asking you to tear me apart and giving you blanket permission to do that for the rest of ever. And permission to trust that you’re not the only one who wants that and _has been_ wanting that. Permission to trust that I know what _I_ want and what I can _take_. What I’m prepared and ready for. Because _I trust_ that no matter how apart you tear me, John Hancock, you’ll _always_ stick around to put me back together and keep me safe while I mend.”

 

John can’t stop gaping after that declaration for at least six thousand centuries. Through those centuries, the intensity of Nathan’s stare doesn’t shift or change, but his tempting mouth curves, wicked and wry. Finally, he nods at John’s night table. “Also: Trust that if _any man_ is gonna have both stimpaks and RadAway within arm’s-reach of where he’s about to get aggro-fucked into a sweaty, bloody pile of unparalleled satisfaction by the sexiest, Vaultie-wrecking-est, _most intense_ wielder of ghoul-dick . . . it’s _Nate Redcastle_.”

 

It takes another few centuries to process that, but when it does, John’s dick twitches, pulses, and somehow gets harder. He groans. Then grins. Then laughs. Then bends Nathan even more, until he can hear muscles and cartilage creak over Nathan’s soft, yearning moans. He steals kisses that are as tender as his first priming thrusts are near-brutal. It isn’t long before Nathan’s gasping and whimpering happily. Holding on tight and hard while _John_ puts everything he is into giving Nathan . . . giving _Nate_ everything _he’s_ ever needed.

 

Soon, John can’t hear anything over the outraged groans and creeching of their bed, and Nate’s filthy, thrilling, _insane_ eggings-on. He can’t hear anything over the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. And it’s neither leisurely, or sprinting to beat the devil.

 

It’s pacing itself, is John’s heart. Settling in for the long-haul—limbering-up for the marathon-run.

 

And the best part of that run? Is that the person he’d chosen and will always choose—this person— _Nate Redcastle_ —John’s _only_ sunshine—is right beside him, so to speak. Sometimes sprinting a bit ahead, because that’s how Nate’s wired . . . but never going out of John’s sight again and always, _always_ doubling back with excitement, affection, and fidelity. With wonder and anticipation. Taking John’s hand and sometimes urging him to _move a little faster, Johnny._ But mostly content to simply share the marathon side-by-side—or back-to-back, as times may warrant.

 

“H-Harder, Johnny . . . _unnnnh_ , please . . . oh . . . G-God, ahhh! Please!”

 

“Yeah, love. ’Course.” And John does as he’s begged, his dick sliding in faster and smoother, the way now slicker and easier even though the muscles around John’s dick are convulsing and spazzing with alarmed semaphore. Nate’s cries are sharper, too—nearly sobs. But they’re mixed with ravenous, demanding growls low in his chest. John can smell copper faintly, then stronger and stronger the more he puts his back into the proceedings. Into driving more growls, and soon roars from Nate’s hoarse, rasping throat.

 

When this is over, the sheets’ll be a blood-soaked loss and the mattress gruesomely festooned in red—both fit only for a trash-fire.

 

The intensity of satisfaction John derives from this is disturbing and unsettling to him, but only for how _not_ disturbed and unsettled he is by this probable outcome.

 

“Please—” Nate moans, loud and at least half-command, and John throws all his weight behind his next thrust. The would-be wail that results from this cuts-off into near-silence a half-second after it sounds. The Vaultie’s voice has gone almost completely—and will be semi-gone for most of the next day, it’ll turn out. A few seconds later, John can feel Nate’s dick pulse and the scalding, seemingly unending spurt of come between their bodies. And even when Nate’s done coming, he stays rock-hard and brand-hot. His eyes are dazed with bliss and glazed with pain, and he gazes with bleary worship at John. Clutches at John’s neck and shoulders with shaking arms and tremoring hands.

 

He tries to clench and release around John’s dick-turned-battering-ram with damaged-torn muscles that aren’t going to be up to much of anything before a stimpak (and _so much RadAway_ ), plus a solid day of _all_ ass-play being off-limits.

 

“ _Joooohhhnn_. . . .” he moans, broken-soft and hoarse-breathless, mournful and pleading when his muscles don’t adequately aid him in pulling and holding John closer. He sounds like the world’s sexiest ghost, and John grins: pleased, predatory, and possessive.

 

“Yeah, baby. ’M almost where ya need me t’be. Gettin’ there, right? Gettin’ there.”

 

John leans down to steal one last kiss before he loses himself in riding _this high_ , too, to whatever end. His brain’s already on fire, and the need to take and claim, and accept dues in the form of come and blood and wailing is sweeping away both mayor-brain and John-brain. Leaving his normally tightly controlled and under-wraps ghoul-brain—his _feral_ -brain—to take the reins until its and Nate’s needs are sated and replete.

 

And that brain is only helped along by the gorgeous lack of reserve in Nate’s totally yielded agency. By his need and desire for all the rough and uncivilized urges John hasn’t wanted to satisfy before, but quite suddenly _really needs to satisfy_ , now.

 

“J-Johhhn. . . .”

 

Nate husks his name when the kiss ends: weak and overwhelmed . . . but still _hungry._ He’s still clutching at John with the little strength he can summon and cleaving as close as he can manage. John pants on Nate’s copper-sweet, trembling-soft lips, intermittently drawing on a determined split in the bottom one.

 

When John speaks, it’s brief and barely recognizable as anything other than growls with delusions of grammar.

 

“ _Yeeeeeaaah, love,”_ his feral-brain reassures. Threatens. _Promises_. _“We’re gonna make some fuckin’_ mem’ries.”

 

 

#

 

 

It’s another four days until Nate has need or even a thought for his boots, or for any of his weapons and armor.

 

Nevertheless, it’s late during the _second_ afternoon that John, having ventured out of his office and attached quarters for the first time in twenty-nine hours for some more rotgut and smokes for himself—and something halfway edible for his worn-out and snoring Vaultie—that he nearly stumbles across a surprise just outside his office door.

 

Nate’s sizable stash of weapons, armor, traps, some random and disturbing tools with toothed edges, and the much-lauded boots sit in a neat, dismayingly immodest pile. But the boots are, indeed, quite sturdy and damn nice.

 

John picks up the boots and tosses them back into the office, just for Nate’s peace of mind. The rest of the dangerous pile of hardware he steps over blithely. And does so for the next day and a half until Nate, himself, goes to retrieve his affects: bare-ass naked and grumbling about even having to get out of bed, at all.

 

When he returns, he’s wide-eyed, his face flushed and sheepish. While he’d been surveying his pile-o-death to make sure it was all present and accounted for, down to the last bullet, Fahrenheit had appeared from around a corner, both startling him and nearly earning herself a lobbed grenade to the face.

 

After giving him a loaded and layered once-over, she’d snorted and strode off toward the front stairs. Not a word had passed between them.

 

Nate, still a bit on edge, had grabbed an undiscriminating armful of his grenades and semi-automatic pistols—but not, by any means, most of the pile—then straightened and backed into John’s office, shutting the door and dumping his armful in the nearest corner.

 

Now, upon dumping _himself_ back into John’s bed and his arms, he grumbles some more. Rants a bit about silent and invisible hench-women giving him the stink-eye, and is generally huffy, distracted, and endearing. But when John exerts himself to change the subject, Nate is nothing, if not completely, exuberantly amenable.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
> **  
> END NOTE  
>   
> 
> ****
> 
> ****
> 
> **The fic is powered mostly by the “[Fear and Loathing in the Commonwealth](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLlp-TNYE4qQUN3oVB1cGzWWFDRfscHCld)” soundtrack. But this two-part chapter was powered _specifically_ by these songs off the soundtrack. And in this order, for atmosphere:**
> 
>  
> 
> [Florence + The Machine - "Addicted To Love"](https://youtu.be/ycrhIpd4ZWU)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [Chris Cornell - "Nearly Forgot My Broken Heart (Lyric Video)" ](https://youtu.be/zpMfZPAc1kg>)  
> [The Civil Wars - "Sour Times (Audio)"](https://youtu.be/F_uCf_08VT0)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [Sixteen Horsepower - "Hutterite Mile (Video Clip)"](https://youtu.be/n_Uvh_Ts62U)
> 
>  
> 
> [Morphine - "Hanging on a Curtain"](https://youtu.be/mTMI8D5clfY)
> 
>  
> 
> [AURORA - "Runaway"](https://youtu.be/d_HlPboLRL8)
> 
>  
> 
> [Wrongchilde ft. White Sea - "Love Is A Battlefield (Official Video)"](https://youtu.be/faNlAaZN8Z4)
> 
>  
> 
> [the flaming lips "all we have is now"](https://youtu.be/Aacl6KCaCmE)
> 
>  
> 
> [Rilo Kiley - "Portions For Foxes"](https://youtu.be/2v7wXak07OY)
> 
>  
> 
> [Josh Ritter - "The Curse"](https://youtu.be/KXBI2_zH9Js)
> 
>  
> 
> Think of it as a template for their dialogues, dynamic, relationship, life, love, and fate: The first song is John’s, the next is Nathan’s, and alternating back and forth like that.


	6. 5A. DAYTRIPPER (AGAIN)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domesticity, threesomes and kinks, chems, and the sweet-life. Maybe a bit _too_ sweet. Though not for the reasons Nate seems to initially think, when John mentions that “taking a walk” might be in order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes/Warnings: Set during and post-The Silver Shroud quest. SPOILERS. Emotional baggage and trope-ish misunderstandings. Smut, hurt/comfort, banter, humor, affectionate ribbing. Mentions of polyamory and mentions of occasional “monogamish”-ness. Mentions of slightly uneven, but reciprocated affections. Mentions of Mayor McDonough.

One evening, after Nate’s been back in town—back in John’s arms and bed, routine and life—for almost as long as he’d been gone, they’re lying in bed, just chilling-out. Slightly tipsy and extremely high (in John’s case, anyway . . . Nate’s been steering clear of recreationals since his return), naked and lazily fooling around.

 

Nate’s lying between John’s legs, half-hanging off the front of their bed, hands hot and heavy on John’s thighs while he works John over with that talented mouth and shameless tongue. John’s lost to sensation, to his booze-buzz, and probably a skosh too much Daytripper interspersed with sporadic doses of Jetfuel.

 

Just to prolong all this sharp-sweet perfection and soft-secure contentment.

 

Nate’s teasing him with precise tonguing and exploration of the tip of his dick, with playful-dangerous hints of teeth, and worshipful whispers of use-swollen lips, and John’s digging it _all_. Goggling at the feelings and the trippy colors on the backs of his eyelids—they’ve flown the ceiling for more personalized locales, it seems—and just . . . _digging it_.

 

But it isn’t long at all before his body decides it wants to come. For about five billion years straight, and surrounded by Nate’s very accommodating throat. He stops being lazy and starts putting his hips into the equation, telegraphing his intentions quite broadly. Nate hums around him, which occasions some fervent swearing and moaning, then pulls off of John’s dick, slow and still teasing. His eyes are bright and dark and deep: love-abysses that John never wants to stop being lost in.

 

“Got a train to catch, sexy?”

 

“Mmm? Whah?”

 

“All of a sudden, we were in quite the rush for release, Mayor Studly. Should I be _extra_ flattered?” John can practically hear the raised waggling of Nate’s expressive eyebrows, and grins at the psychedelic show on the backs of his eyelids.

 

“I’ve never wanted to shove my dick down your throat as much as I do right now. And considering how much I _always_ wanna shove my dick down your throat—or in any of you—that’s sayin’ a lot, brother,” John adds, musing and wistful. Nate chuckles, warm, humid air gusting on John’s dick. “Fuck, _c’mon_ , Vaultie . . . finish me off and let’s bask.”

 

“With an invitation like that, it’s tough for a fella to resist. However,” Nathan murmurs on John’s dick before giving it a long, lollipop-lick, then applying teasing-precise teeth for exactly three seconds. “I’m wearing my resolve-hat, tonight. We’re gonna play for _at least_ several hours before you lose consciousness.”

 

“ _Hours, plural_? Ah, sunshiiiiine. . . .”

 

“So, in the spirit of bolstered stamina . . . what’s your story, Mr. Mayor? Tell me more about _you_.”

 

“Ehhhh. Do I _gotta_? I mean, normally, I’m my _favorite_ subject. But right now, love, I can’t say I’m a fan,” John quips, then opens his eyes and stares down his body at his Vaultie. Nate’s smirk is hovering just inches above John’s lonely, forsaken dick. “Ah, c’mon, Nate . . . why do ya wanna hear _that_ cautionary wail _right now_? Wouldn’t you rather show off some of those useful skills of yours?”

 

“Mm. Perhaps I would. And perhaps I will. But I also want you to last longer than three more minutes, so, your life-story, it is. It’ll keep you harder for longer, having something else to focus on besides how bad you wanna fuck my face and bruise my throat.” Nate’s dark, playful-dangerous eyes flash up at John, ravenous and intense—unshielded desires on display, more blatant than a billboard. John shivers and gives it one more half-assed try.

 

“You _really_ wanna drag-out catching a throatful, brother? I mean, that’s addin’ insult to injury, if ya ask _me_. Or maybe just boredom, which is actually worse.”

 

More waggling of those eyebrows. “Well. I like deepthroating cock and I like _you_ . . . and I _especially_ like _deepthroating your cock_. Soooo . . . why _wouldn’t_ I want that combination to last as long as possible and by any means necessary?”

 

John blinks, then huffs out a slightly winded giggle. “Damn. I can’t argue with that and I’d be a damned fool to try. Alright. One summarized life-story, comin’ up. But, uh . . . what’s in it for the mayor, pretty-eyes?”

 

“You mean, besides me swallowing your cock?” Nate smirks, flicking his tongue around the head of John’s dick like the world’s sexiest snake. “You get to come _wherever_ you want. Where. Ever.”

 

John’s nonexistent eyebrows inch up toward his nonexistent hairline, his _extremely_ existent interest instantly piqued. “Wherever?”

 

Another smirk, wider, still. “Well, I can think of a few places where blowing your load might not work out too well for you. Anywhere that’s Fahrenheit-adjacent comes to mind. . . .”

 

John shudders and recoils a little, then lets himself be mollified by Nate’s clever-shameless mouth and tongue. “Never, ever put those two concepts in my mind at the same time again. Unless my dick bein’ permanently limp appeals to you in some way.”

 

“Hmm. Not really.”

 

“Alright, then. Anywhere— _on or in_ _you_ —I want, huh?”

 

“This Vaultie’s your oyster, yup.”

 

Smirking, himself, John reaches out and runs a finger down Nate’s nose, to his pouty, parted lips, and then down to his chin and up along the stubborn angle of his jaw. And he smirks even wider, doing some brow-waggling of his own.

 

Nate rolls his eyes and groans, but his lips are twitching like they want to smile. Or smirk some more. “Really, Johnny? _Really_?”

 

“You said anywhere on or in you, sunshine.” John shrugs and grins . . . but the grin fades to an absently predatory smile. “And this face is the most gorgeous, come-on-able real estate I ever did see. I mean, I wanna come _everywhere_ on you _and_ in you, to be honest. But _this face_ . . . I’ve wanted this face from the first moment I saw you. I wanna come all over it then kiss you breathless after I do.”

 

Nate gapes and blinks, then shivers, all anticipation and pleasure. “Well, if you’d put it like that sooner, John, you coulda been finishing on my face from that first night we fucked!”

 

“Whah—well, you seemed so offended whenever I mentioned it, I figured your face was a nonnegotiable, no-fly zone for jizz!”

 

“I—” Nate turns deeply red and his smile grows sheepish. “I have nothing against it in theory, it’s just . . . it’s difficult to time certain things! I—I _love_ to watch you come. So, if you’re about to come on my face, then _I’m_ about to have two eyesful of burning, _irradiated_ agony. Get it?”

 

John can only stare, at first. Then, laughter starts happening, too, which earns him one of Nate’s glares. The one John’s labeled _Pure Piss and Vinegar_ . . . and which Fahrenheit calls _Needs More Fiber_.

 

“Apparently coming anywhere in, on, or even near me is no longer a priority for you, Mr. Mayor. Good to know. Maybe I’ll just go to the Third Rail for a few hours, and see how laughable _Kent Connolly_ finds me while I'm swallowing his cock. . . .”

 

“Hey, now, sunshine—hey!” John’s laughter stops like his throat’s been cut and he even sits up, pinning Nate’s hands before they can leave his thighs. That gets him a nonchalantly raised eyebrow and a far-too-innocent expression. He scowls. “No fair, playing the Connolly-card. Jeez, see if I ever indulge in one of your weird-ass fantasies again, if you’re just gonna weaponize my boyfriendly altruism and mayorly magnanimity.”

 

Nate smirks, quick and deep, but turns it into an apologetic, yet rather suspect pout. “Hmm. Well, it _was_ very generous of you, Johnny. And just about the _best_ birthday present ever.”

 

“ _Just about_?”

 

Nate’s repentant face quivers, then cracks, and he laughs. “The _absolute_ best, studly. Getting double-teamed by the two sexiest ghouls in the Commonwealth was by far the hottest double-team I’ve ever been privileged to be a part of.”

 

John rolls his eyes and fights a smile, shaking his head with overdone sadness. “The _only_ thing hot about two scrawny-ass ghouls on a fine-ass Vaultie, is the fine-ass Vaultie. Especially if the fine-ass Vaultie’s _you_. But ‘m startin’ to feel like I’m just a fetish to you, and not a real, live boy. Especially if you think motherfucking _Kent ‘Silver Shroud’ Connolly_ is remotely sexy. _And_ you’re lumpin’ _me_ in with his brand of supposed sexiness, too? Damn, brother. That’s just hurtful. I’mma have to rethink your taste in _everything_ , now.”

 

“Johnny. _Baby_ ,” Nate purrs, slithering up the bed until he’s straddling John’s lap and leaning their foreheads together. His arms wrap around John’s neck, heavy and warm and right, and John sighs. “You know that for me, getting fucked by Kent was only fun because _you_ were fucking me, too, right? And watching . . . and _directing_.” Those dark, hungry eyes flash so hot, John’s surprised he doesn’t go up in flames. “And you know that it’s _you_ I always want, right? That if someone else occasionally pitches in—helps you ride me hard and put me away wet, well, then . . . that’s just icing on the cake. And _you_ , Mayor Hancock, are _always_ the cake.”

 

Unable and unwilling to fight the goofy grin stealing across his face, John wraps his arms around Nate’s waist, tight-tight-tight, and teases a tender, lingering kiss from his lips.

 

“Huh. I guess I can resign myself to bein’ your ghoul-style dildo, ‘s long as I’m your _favorite_ one.”

 

“My favorite _and_ my _best_.”

 

“Y’know, Connolly still makes the most ridiculous calf-eyes at you, even three months later?”

 

Nate hems and haws and wriggles like a nervous guppy. “Shut up, John.”

 

“And whenever anyone mentions your name around him, he fucking _stammers_.” Shaking his head again, John huffs. “Have you even let him fuck you since the morning after your birthday?”

 

“Nope.” Nate shakes his head, too. Then makes a face. “Well . . . sorta? Nothing beyond some friendly handjobs and blowjobs when we meet up to talk Silver Shroud-business. _Never_ anything more than my hand or my mouth, if you’re not in on it, too. And I’ve _never_ let him finish on my face.”

 

“Huh. Well.” John snorts and smirks, feeling kind of smug, and very reassured. “Don’t gotta wait for _me_ to participate, if you wanna get some hall-pass side-dick, sunshine. We talked about it, and I’m still cool with it. I just don’t get how _Connolly_ and _hall-pass side-dick_ meet. Even in _your_ pretty-loony head. But to each his bland and boring own. Heh, I’ll bet he was a virgin before that night. He for damn-sure never had a taste of anything like _you_ , love.”

 

“Kent was _not_ a virgin, John.” But Nate’s laughing again and holding on tight as John shifts them and bears him to their bed for slow, dirty grinding and kisses. “Maybe he’s not . . . _fuck, yeah, like that_ . . . an indiscriminate man-whore like either of us, but he definitely wasn’t a virgin, either.”

 

“Wanna put some caps on that bet, brother ?”

 

“. . . not at this time, no, thank you.” Nate’s voice is lofty and prim, and John snickers.

 

“Uh-huh. Didn’t think so.” He rocks his body against Nate’s hard, driving a long groan from the throat he’s currently marking with livid hickeys. “Anyhow, I never said there was anything wrong with still bein’ innocent and pure . . . even at _his_ age. . . .”

 

“ _John_. . . .”

 

“But the guy’s got, like, at least two hundred forty years on everybody in Goodneighbor, is all I’m sayin’. What was he savin’ it for, a rainy day? Accrued interest? The ghoul of his dreams?”

 

Nate’s big hands settle on John’s ass for squeezing and appreciative urging-on. Then, when John settles on him _just so_ , Nate’s thighs lock tight around John’s bony hips. “You . . . are the most horrible person in this room, John Hancock. And many other rooms, besides. Even rooms you aren’t currently in.”

 

Guffawing and giggling, again, John nuzzles up to Nate’s nose, then back down to his neck, inhaling deeply. “Every time Connolly bumps into me or Fahrenheit on the street, he gets all nervous and fidget-y. Then he oh, so casually stammers out questions about how _you’re_ doin’. _‘Um, so, have you s-seen Nate, r-recently, F-F-Fahrenheit? S-sure hope he’s doing well!’_ Or: _‘H-Hey, Hancock! I, uh, haven’t seen N-Nate in a couple days . . . is he s-still, um, in t-town or off on a job?’_ ” John’s giggling guffaws become breathless chuffs, which become a squawked-out swear, then cackles when Nate huffs and pinches his ass hard.

 

“Kent’s just being courteous and friendly—something _you_ wouldn’t know anything about—and asking after a . . . friend.” When John only laughs harder, Nate grumbles, low and affronted. “He’s a _sweet and gentle soul_ , and you’re a mean, judgmental fucking dick.”

 

“Guilty, all day, pretty-eyes. But still, I’m just recountin’ actual events and statin’ actual facts: Connolly wants to fuck you again so bad, it’d be killin’ him, dead, if not for precious, life-extending rads. He’s in the throes of puppy-love that’s deeper and worse than _any_ I’ve ever seen. Poor schmuck.”

 

“And you’re poking fun at the so-called _poor schmuck_. Gotcha.”

 

“Well. It’s pretty fuckin’ hilarious, ya gotta admit. Not to _Connolly_ , of course . . . but to damn-near everyone else who’s witnessed it. And fuck, if he was at least _stealth_ about his damn _feelings_ , no one would talk or notice. But he keeps dedicating ballads to you on the air—not to mention all seven episodes of _The Silver Shroud_ every week for the past thirteen, and—”

 

“Wait—there’s talk? And ballads? _Dedications_?” Nate demands, pushing John up off him a bit to gape once again. John shakes his head, bemused and amused, incredulous and very much in-love.

 

“For a paranoid Vault-Dweller, you’ve gotta be the least savvy person I’ve ever met. _After_ Kent Connolly, that is—ow!”

 

“ _Jesus-fuck_ ,” Nate moans, closing his eyes while John rubs his twice-assaulted right asscheek. “It’s been three months! Although . . . maybe reinforcing whatever attachment he might be feeling with handys and blow-jays hasn’t been the smartest, kindest move? _Damnit_ . . . but puppy-love fades pretty quickly, right? Especially in a hardened, post-Apocalyptic Wasteland?”

 

“Sure, brother, why not?” John grins big, and apparently unbelievably, for the worried-heartbroken look Nate’s aiming up at him. “Aww, my sweet, oblivious sunshine . . . underestimatin’ how ridiculously lovable you are. Listen.” John rolls off Nate, then nudges and shifts him, until he can spoon up behind him close and tight.

 

He’s still hard and still eager to chase the O wherever it leads—especially if it’s all over Nate’s perfect face—but with adjusted priorities, nonetheless. Sighing, he tucks his face into the crook of Nate’s neck and shoulder, then squeezes his lover _tight_ in response to a small-happy shiver of welcome.

 

“Okay,” he says, settling in to tell his cautionary wail, in the hopes of distracting his love and getting some first-ever face-time right after. “Okay, so, I come into this town about a decade ago, right? Maybe a few years more? Had a smooth set of skin back then—not as pretty as _yours_ , but decent, nonetheless. Anyway, after I got this mayoring-gig and while I was busy making myself a pillar of this community, I would go on these wild tears. Any chems and warm holes I could find, and I’d lose myself for an hour, or a night, or a week. The more exotic the, uh, high, the better. Still, I kinda burnt-out on highs _and holes_ . . . at least the, uh, easy-to-come-by, common stuff.

 

“This one time, though . . . I found this experimental radiation-drug. Only one of its kind left, and only one hit.” John pauses to grimace. Then, to smile: wondering and with even more bemusement than a few minutes ago. Like his Mama, and Nathan Redcastle, and Goodneighbor, that drug’d been one of the best, most redeeming things that’d ever happened to anchor his shiftless life. “I'm, ah, still livin’ with the side effects, as you can see, but that high? Was so fuckin’ worth it. Only one thing in this world ever got and still gets me higher.” John punctuates this truth with a few lazy-hard thrusts against his Vaultie’s ass that make said Vaultie murmur and hum appreciatively. John sighs again, kissing and nuzzling Nate’s shoulder, and laughing a little. “Yeah. Interesting side effects, indeed. But, hey, what's _not_ to love about total and permanent irradiation, iffy immortality, and _these_ dashing-ass good looks. . . ?”

 

 

#

 

 

“I need to take a walk,” John blurts out, one evening not too many weeks after the whole Silver Shroud-mess has finally been put to bed, so to speak.

 

(Though, the same most definitely _cannot_ be said for Kent-fucking-Connolly’s crush on _John’s Vaultie_. In fact, since the celebratory, _second_ three-way Nate had gotten going between them—right after he’d rescued Connolly from Sinjin, then put that asshole and his goons down like dogs—Connolly’s Vaultie-worship is deeper, and more obvious and annoying than ever. And _no doubt_ , the three-ways Nate’s sporadically initiated since that crazy night have helped Connolly’s crush along.)

 

But, John being _John_ . . . _Mayor Hancock_ . . . he doesn’t _actually_ _blurt out_ this casually dramatic statement about rearranging his whole fucking life. _Mayor Hancock_ does many things, almost all of them _fan-damn-tastical_ , but none of them involve _blurting_ , even at his chemmed-up highest. This statement . . . he more like lets it come drifting out on the back of a weary, slightly lost sigh, like long-held cigarette smoke. Then he takes a deep drag off his coffin-nail, blowing out actual smoke up toward the silent, unhelpful ceiling in a staggered, diffuse plume. Then, he looks down at his as-always- _distracting_ , fine-ass Vaultie.

 

Nate—naked but for a chartreuse cravat tied loosely and jauntily around his upright dick, and John’s tricorne askew on his thatchy-messy head—is half-under the mayor’s desk and between John’s spread, half-bare legs. His face is serene and his eyes half-lidded, his use-swollen lips puckering tight around the tip of John’s dick, so innocently masking the dirty-shameless sinuosity of that sinful tongue.

 

The stubby, dark lashes framing Nate’s pretty, no-longer-quite-so-crazy eyes flutter . . . but he doesn’t make eye-contact, like he usually does when his mouth is on or near John’s dick. Though, he hums a gentle, hoarse-throated interrogative that nearly sets John right off—makes him fight not to grab Nate’s head and hold it still while fucking up into that mouth until he’s fucking _down_ that hoarse, accommodating throat.

 

Even when John’s regained some of his self-control, it’s almost immediately blown apart by Nate’s clever fingers teasing, then his large-rough palm cupping, squeezing, and tugging on John’s balls firmly.

 

Though nowhere near as firmly as Nate, himself, tends to enjoy when John’s doing the cupping, squeezing, and tugging.

 

“Keep _that_ up, sunshine, and you’ll do me in for the night. And _then_ where will you be?” John warns and asks, lazy but frustrated for reasons that have nothing to do with Nate’s dirty-delightful mouth and talented-precise hands.

 

Now, at last, Nate’s dark, dangerous-fond gaze meets John’s. Then he smirks around John’s dick before slurping his way off it, slow and nasty. John can only groan and sigh and pout.

 

“So . . . what? Now, your fingers and tongue’re broken? And you’ve also forgotten where we keep the toys?” Nate’s waggly brows shoot up and his lips are pursed. His voice is snarky, but still hoarse and sexy as _fuck_. John strokes himself a few times, not even trying for tempting, just reminding the apparently moody Vaultie that his favorite pastime is still available for indulging.

 

And, as expected, those wide, hungry eyes flick to John’s dick for a few moments, before narrowing and ticking to John’s face again. “You know me far too well. Regardless, even though I’m comfortable on my knees—and ecstatic to be on them, when I’m on ‘em for you—I’ll turn this office and our bedroom upside down, then right-side up again, until I find that cock-ring we _lost_ , which you _think_ I don’t know you hid. And if you so much as take the edge off _before_ I find it, I’ll go practice my best skill-set on Kent Connolly. Again. I’m a sucker for a ghoul who can appreciate a good thing and be a little patient for it.”

 

John groans. “Goddamnit, sunshine. You _really_ need to stop playin’ that card. It’s lame and more than a bit of a boner-slayer.”

 

“Liar.” Nate smirks and darts in to lick the tip of John’s cock fast and hard, forcing another moan that’s almost pained in its frustration and tension. Its distracted-thwarted _need_. “You think I didn’t notice how much you got off on being the alpha-male and giving orders that first night we had with Kent? And then that night after we saved him from Sinjin? You think I _couldn’t_ tell how much you liked taking charge of not only _how_ he fucked me, how _hard_ , and _how long_ . . . but deciding _exactly_ how I took what you told him to give me? And how watching Kent and I do _all_ the dirty things _you and I_ do made you wanna do ’em _again_ and _even more_? Do you _really_ think I didn't notice _any_ of that, stud?”

 

It’s a good couple minutes before John’s fairly sure he won’t coat Nate’s handsome face in irradiated liquid-mayor—not a wise move _without_ Nate’s tacitly-given permission in the moment, but _certainly not_ when they’re low on RadAway.

 

Which, they kind of always are, since _Nate Redcastle_ is many things—including _King of the Centuries-Old, Vault-Dwelling Badasses_ —but none of them is a spitter.

 

 _I’m pretty lucky, I guess. And even Kent-goddamn-Connolly all up in my sex-life_ and _my Vaultie doesn't make that less true_ , John muses, letting go of his dick to brush his thumb along Nate’s bottom lip. Nate swipes his tongue all over John’s thumb slowly, promisingly, and despite the familiarity of the gesture, John is somehow _more_ turned-on by it than ever . . . not less.

 

And _still. Even_ after more than a year since the first time Nate had knelt for John: all desire and desperation, nerves and need, pretty and crazy. . . .

 

 _Gorgeous_ . . . and unlike anyone John’d ever known or likely _would ever_ know.

 

“This classy little tricorne hat of mine is gettin’ heavy. I _really_ need to take a walk again, love,” John says suddenly, reaching up to nudge the tricorne a little straighter on its precarious Vaultie skull-perch. Nate blinks and, judging by the widening of his abyss-pretty eyes, John actually _is blurting,_ this time.

 

Or, perhaps it’s the statement itself that’s worth all the goggling, and the utterly poleaxed look on Nate’s face. John leans back in his mayor-chair and tilts his head up toward the ceiling, dragging hard on his coffin-nail. “Feels like life’s missin’ somethin’ important. Somethin’ meaningful. Sometimes, I need somethin’ to unsettle and _unground_ me. Shake me up, a little. That’s _been_ missin’ for a good while, now.”

 

“Ah. I, ah . . . I see.” Nate’s voice is soft and rather faint-sounding, as if coming from the other end of a windy, long-ass room.

 

“I’m too insulated and _safe_ in this town and job and routine. Too _comfortable_. And _no one_ in power deserves to be comfortable for long.” John’s next drag on the cig is as grim as the expression he’s aiming at the ceiling. He has to do without the usual colors because, for once, he’s neither high or drunk on anything except for the sexy Vault-Dweller being so willingly, wonderfully dick-adjacent. Otherwise, John’d’ve already been half a bottle-deep into the Daytripper on his desk. He snorts, wry and bemused. Was a time wouldn’t nothing or no one distract _John Hancock_ from his chems . . . but John’s not at all sad to be remembering those days rather than still living them. “Hell, brother, _you_ already tried to knock over someone else’s stash, so, I _know_ we see eye-to-eye on the gettin’-your-hands-dirty part of life bein’ necessary. And sometimes . . . even the _best_ part of life.”

 

“There’s, ah . . . certainly something to be said for never being sure what’s around that next corner. Or over that next horizon,” Nate agrees—himself bright and flat, like the afterimage of a horizon . . . post-detonated nuke. “I can certainly understand that instinct and temptation, John. But how can you _leave_ . . . G-Goodneighbor? After . . . everything? I m-mean, aren’t you the mayor?”

 

“Hey, the mayor’s still the mayor, whether he's _in-residence_ or not, sunshine.” John snorts and smiles a little. “Goodneighbor and I, we got a connection—just like you and me got. But _unlike_ you and me . . . me and this town weren’t meant to be _this_ hot-and-heavy and this steady. And damn-sure not for this long. She an’ I gotta spend time apart an’ let things cool-off. And _I_ gotta remind myself who I am. Who _John_ is, not _Mayor Ghoul._ **_Of the people, for the people,_** sure. Four, five, _and_ six-ever. I won’t ever not mean that. But _I’m_ one of them people, too. And when I’m playin’ mayor . . . it ain’t always easy to remember that.”

 

“Ah,” Nate says again, still soft and faint. His hands on John’s left knee and right thigh, slide slowly away, leaving a bit of a chill in their warm-heavy wake. “Understood.”

 

And _that_ sounds like a complete and total, shit-ass fucking lie. Even though, as far as John knows, Nate Redcastle has _never_ lied to him in even tiny ways (at least not without also unconsciously lying to himself). Thus, what Nate Redcastle dealing in untruths might sound like is anyone’s guess. But John has a feeling that in this moment at least, his own guess’d be better than most by a long-shot.

 

He reins in his gaze from the boring, peeling ceiling and aims it at the only sight he’ll _never_ grow tired of: his Vaultie’s face, beaming up into his own, shining about the eyes and smiling about the mouth.

 

Only . . . his Vaultie’s face isn’t doing _any_ of those things at all, this time. Nate’s frown is small but stricken. Deep. His brow is furrowed deeper, still, and the eyes below them are still abysses, but they seem home to something bleaker and darker than simply Nate’s crazy-pure love.

 

Then that expression smooths-out and becomes the increasingly rare poker-face even John can’t read past and will probably never be able to.

 

“Sometimes, it gets to be time to move on from places and people we know. Not because we hate them or even got sick of them, but . . . just ‘cause it’s time to _move on_. Time to be about something or someone else—or just time to . . . _not_ be about that _old_ stuff. I . . . get that, John. I really do,” Nate says, his voice softer and fainter than ever, his eyes wide and shell-shocked in a way even the poker-face can’t completely hide.

 

Frowning again, too, John flicks the last of the cigarette at the open balcony doors—hoping the whole building doesn’t go up since, when flicking away butts or roaches and even when aiming, he’s been known to hit walls, curtains, half-finished glasses of rotgut, and his constituents’ hair—and cups Nate’s face in his hand. As always, Nate leans into the touch and tenderness but still, instead of beaming up at John, his eyes flutter shut and his entire face quivers, as if fighting an expression he doesn’t want John to see. Or himself to know is even a possibility.

 

The sudden and strong thought that this forced-back expression might be one of doubt or exasperation, mere tolerance or even contempt, takes John like a summer storm, sweeping him and his reluctance to speak plainly up and away.

 

He needs _Nathan Redcastle_ , if no one else, to see him and believe him . . . to take him seriously and at his word. And especially about this.

 

“I don’t _ever_ wanna turn into _The Man_ , sunshine. I’d rather be dead,” he once more blurts, leaning forward to whisper it urgently, like divulging a state secret. Nate’s eyes flutter open again, solemn and surprised and confused.

 

“I . . . _what_?” he whispers right back, small and unsteady—blinking rapidly as if he’s just been goosed. John sighs and shakes his head.

 

“Like . . . I dunno. I think maybe I’m turnin’ into The Man, or some kinda tyrant asshole who deserves bullets instead of constituents. The guy whose name I took was a man of the people and for the people. Just like _I’ve_ always been or tried to be. I don’t wanna be _above people_ , y’know? I mean, I got some good ideas and a lotta tenacity. This town could have a worse guide and wrangler than ol’ John Hancock. But that don’t make me _better_ or bigger than anyone out on that street. Just stubborner and more reckless, maybe. And what I _ain’t,_ is lookin’ to be Goodneighbor’s latest autocrat. Whyna hell would I _wanna be_? That shit’s for assholes like my brother, but . . . not for me. Not ever.”

 

Though Nate’s expression is still solemn, that surprise and confusion have vanished. In their place is the still slightly discomfiting, occasionally near-frightening attentiveness John catches on Nate’s handsome face with regularity. That look and consideration is most-often aimed at John, though sometimes at others ( _never_ at _sweet and gentle_  Kent-fucking-Connolly, for whatever that’s worth). It’s the face Nate sometimes wears when John’s fucked him out of his right mind . . . then right back into it. The face Nate sometimes makes in idle moments when staring off into the distance . . . when he’s at his most silent and unapproachable.

 

It’s probably the face he makes when he kills people, too, regardless of his motives or theirs.

 

It’s the face of a man for whom the world has ceased to be, beyond the object of his attention, whether that attention is fond or fatal. And it’s not the first time that, in the wake of that expression, John marvels not only at Nate’s complete inability to compartmentalize. Not to mention his infinite-spectrum, sliding scale perception of life and the world. Of people. John simply wonders if that perception had been born _with Nate_ , or _of surviving Armageddon_ , and the loss of his family, sanity, and all he’d ever known.

 

Neither would surprise John. And though he’s never been _afraid of_ Nate—only _for_ him, and always will be, to some degree—he briefly wonders if even just hints of the uncharted depths of Nate’s quicksilver-askew psyche will always seem so unsettling. So un-plumbable.

 

He wonders if its sudden turns will always seem to be left ones.

 

For Nate’s sake, he hopes not. Though, John has to admit to himself that Nate’s frequently unpredictable behaviors and responses are as thrilling, exhilarating, and addictive—more so—than any chem he’s ever tried. The high resulting from all-things-Nate is unparalleled.

 

“You . . . wanna leave town because . . . _you don’t want to turn into someone like your brother_?” Nate asks, blinking and still so strangely uncertain, his eyes shining so hopefully and vulnerably, that John’s taken aback. Then Nate licks his lips. “Not because . . . not because you need to get away from . . . _other stuff_?”

 

Now, John’s the one blinking. And confused. He brushes his index fingertip along Nate’s relatively clean-shaven jaw and smiles sadly, shrugging and sighing. “Been buggin’ the shit outta me for a long-ass time, sunshine. Hell, even from before _we_ met. And it’s gettin’ worse and worse, lemme tell—wait. _Wait_ . . . what _other stuff_ besides not becoming Guy-the-sequel, would make me wanna blow doors on a cushy gig like _this_?”

 

Nate, looking startled, relieved, upset, and caught-out, blinks once more, slow and long-held. But even before he finally opens his eyes again, tears start running down his face. And they don’t look like they’ll be inclined to stop anytime soon.

 

**TBC in ~~ _5B. DAYTRIPPER (AGAIN)_~~ **


	7. 5B. DAYTRIPPER (AGAIN)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of 5A: chems, kinks, and the sweet-life. Maybe a _lot_ sweeter than either of them had previously imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes/Warnings: Set post-The Silver Shroud quest. SPOILERS. Emotional baggage and trope-ish misunderstandings. Light smut, body worship, hurt/comfort, banter, humor, affectionate ribbing. Mentions of Sole's life before the War. John's musings about Sole's late wife. Free chems for _everyone_.
> 
> Weeeeell . . . maybe just for that _one_ guy.

**~~5B. DAYTRIPPER, AGAIN~~ **

 

 

Finally, Nate’s brow furrows yet again, half-absently, and he sniffs. He turns his face up, but doesn’t meet John’s anxious gaze. His cheeks are wet and still getting wetter, but he seems more bemused and self-mocking than upset. When Nate’s gaze focuses on him again, that plush, sensual mouth turns down in a perturbed, but genteel frown. “Go out a hero . . . or hang-around long enough to see yourself become the villain,” he says quietly, dourly, and John instantly shivers, as if a supermutant is walking over his grave.

 

“Yeah. _Fuckin’ A_ , brother,” he chokes out, horrified and relieved, because once again, Nate not only gets him, but gets his deepest fears. And he isn’t trying to comfort or jolly John out of them, simply trying to understand those fears without—or at least  _before_ —placing some kind of value-judgment on them or on John. “I’m about gettin’ out there, in the thick, and helpin’ the little guy. And then stabbin’ the fucking  _shit_  outta anyone tryin’ to keep that little guy down. Or I  _was_. But now. . . .”

 

“Now?” Nate asks, serious and open, without being coddling or overly-deferential. John’s heart trips right over itself with just how lucky he is and how right he’s chosen. How right he _is still choosing_ every moment of every day he has Nate Redcastle at his side.

 

_I wish you coulda met him, Mama. You’da loved him as much I do: Deeper than oceans and forever and ever. Or at least until that love just overloaded your heart to stopping—ghosted you with a smile on your face. . . ._

 

And he stops the thought there, startled at the naïve-bullshit-ish sound of it: the biggest feeling he’s ever felt and ever will feel, defined just as hackish and inadequately as any soulmate-crap. Then he chuckles, tiny and tired, and almost timid under Nate’s full, undivided attention. In the bright and piercing light of his precious, gorgeous, _intense_ Vaultie’s full-bore scrutiny and assessment.

 

His own gaze drops—he can’t help it under that pure but measuring stare from the one person whose good opinion of him is . . . absolutely everything. “Now, well, it seems like I spend all my time puttin’ down the folks I woulda been proud to scheme with just a few years ago. Dunno if that’s good, bad, or just  _what it is,_  but . . . the fact that I can’t tell anymore is a wake-up call. I can’t let it be anything else, and still be good for Goodneighbor. Or . . . or for  _anyone_  else.” Risking a brief glance at Nate’s face, he then looks down and shakes his head again.

 

Nate watches John silently, while John watches anything but Nate: the mute-blank ceiling, the sorta tore-up floor, the play of night-life and light flickering in through the open balcony doors. The usual drunken laughter from the street sounds distorted with mockery and near-malevolence, and that sets John on an edge that only prickles and  _sharpens,_  and ratchets higher and tighter, until—

 

“ ***** **Hell is murky** ,” Nates notes under his breath, startling John into looking at him once more. His face is grim and sad, but frustrated, too—clearly on John’s behalf. His eyes are bright-dark and almost burning. “ **Fie, my lord, fie—a soldier,** _ **and**_ **a-fear’d? What need** _ **we**_ **fear who knows it, when** _ **none**_ **can call our power to account?** ”

 

John blinks and generally looks completely ramskazzled until Nate smiles, small and ironic, and shrugs.

 

“Just a quote from a writer I’ve always liked. Anyway . . . listen: I’ve been a few places,” Nate says, thoughtful but kind, pulling John fully out of his spiraling, rat-run worries. When he takes a breath and nods for Nate to go on—Nate rarely talks about himself, and even in the slough of his own weighty shit, John wouldn’t pass up a chance to have a little of the mystery solved—Nate looks down again, at John’s left knee. His dark eyes are shuttered by equally dark lashes, his lips slightly pursed, every sharp-determined-noble angle of his face softened by the iffy and atmospheric light from outside. The aged-copper tone of his skin is rendered a lambent bronze.

 

“When I was younger, well before the War, my mom and I moved around a lot. So, I’ve lived in places I loved. And in places I hated so much, I didn’t breathe once till they were in the rearview for keeps. And lemme tell ya: Even for a brat with more energy, optimism, and enthusiasm, than the common sense whoever’s god gave a goose, Chattanooga is . . . _was_  sweltering and wilting in the summer. Slow and soupy, like life in a crockpot.” He shrugs his broad, prominently-defined shoulders and smiles a bit at John’s knee. “Anyway, I’ve been places, for living and for visiting. And, well, I won’t lie and say Goodneighbor is _the_ best town that ever was. That’d be obvious and disingenuous, since I’m woefully under-informed, not having been to _most_  towns, let alone all that ever were. However, I think Goodneighbor is the best town  _for me_. And for the people who wind up here and find that they like it well-enough—like how it’s _cared for_  well-enough—to put down stakes and call it home for keeps.”

 

Nate’s eyes tick to John’s, still intent and abyss-like, still welling with the usual affection and fondness, but no longer with that bleak sensibility of a few minutes ago. It’s been replaced by something shining and bright and buoyant, and his cheeks are nearly dry. “This town isn’t perfect—no town is. But it doesn’t disguise its flaws or ignore them. Doesn’t misrepresent itself to the world. Most of the neighbors here care about where they live and how, and that makes this town not just free, but _good_. The freest, good-est place in the Commonwealth—maybe in this world. Freer than anyplace I’ve ever lived or visited. Rough-hewn, sure . . . but never dishonest and never resting on her laurels.

 

“And that’s not due to providence, or to anyone’s example or leadership but yours, John Hancock.” Nate’s eyes, as black and unbreakable as obsidian, seem to glitter and flash. “The _good_  in Goodneighbor is down to your efforts and to _you_ , and I defy you to go out among your people right now and find a single soul who’d disagree with me.”

 

Gaping, John can only shake his head, feeling slow and numb and idiotic. “I . . . damn. You’re a sweetheart, sunshine, and so help me, even just the way you look at me makes me feel like a better man than I’ll ever be. But ya gotta admit, Vaultie . . . you’re a little biased.”

 

At last, Nate smirks again, hot-heavy hands once more settling on John’s bare thighs as he leans in to rasp lingeringly across the tip of John’s flagging dick. As usual, Nate being dick-adjacent, let alone making contact, is more than enough to make John groan out a string of swearing and grunted groans as his body about-faces and he starts to get hard again with almost agonizing speed. “Maybe a little, Mr. Mayor. But, so, what? You’re not a good person and good leader because I like this cock. I like this cock because you’re a good person and a good leader. Although your cheesy, irradiated charm and drop dead-sexiness helps a  _lot_.”

 

“Ahhhh.” John snorts even as his rad-heated body heats even more. “Now, you’re just bein’ a dutiful and supportive spouse to make me feel better. Standin’ by your lovin’ man.”

 

It slips out and Nate notices it before John does, his face, mouth, and eyes all “O”s of shock. But after some flustered blinking, he composes himself. And by the time he does, John’s own gameface is welded back on, even as his insides and fucking _soul_ quiver.

 

Eventually, Nate smirks, slow and sly and a bit loony, and leans in, back bowed and throat bared, submissive as anything. Not to mention _everything John’s ever wanted in a chosen partner_.

 

 _Never_  more than in  _this moment_.

 

“I do make a _damn_ good _Mrs. Mayor_. I’ve got great party-manners.”

 

“And you look ridiculously hot in one of those old, pre-War cocktail dresses, too,” John notes, lost in recall for a few moments. Nate’s smirk widens.

 

“Poor Fahrenheit’s traumatized for life, though.”

 

“Eh. At least she’ll never again forget to knock before bargin’ in on our private parties.”

 

“. . . it’s hardly her fault we took our . . .  _private party_  to the _public_  receiving room of the mayor’s digs.”

 

“Hazards of the bodyguard-gig,  _I_  say.” John shrugs cavalierly. “Anyway, all things considered, you sure did some _receivin’_  in that very public room. It finally lived up to its name in grand fashion, thanks to my elegant and nigh-insatiable first lady.”

 

Nate shakes his head, his smirk curving up into a crooked, irrepressible grin. “You’re such a dick. Plus, your radioactive, silk-melting spooj destroyed the damn dress. It was an _antique_ , John. And that’s two hundred caps I’ll never get back.”

 

“And yet, it didn’t cost _me_ a single cap. Not even  _one_  in the two months since.” John chuckles, but manages to look sympathetic for all of five seconds. Then he’s grinning and laughing as he adds: “Such a sweet, accommodating first lady, and I didn’t even have to put a ring on it.”

 

Nate rolls his eyes in exasperation, but otherwise seems content. “Don’t have to. But if you wanted to—or _someone_   _wanted_  to . . . he should know I’m not crazy about gold, but I like silver and other silver-ish metals, just fine. And I’ll allow rose-gold is  _kinda_  pretty, too. Hell, depending on the man doing the putting-on of said ring . . . I’d cherish a chewed-over old cigar-band, if it meant love. If it meant  _forever_ , and that he wanted to keep me for at least that long.”

 

John’s hairless brows lift bemusedly, which doesn’t mitigate the mercury-triphammer of his heart. “Listen to you, sunshine . . . turnin’ jaded, hard-ass old politicians into fresh-churned butter with that talented tongue.”

 

“Yep. And you  _like_  that tongue.” Another slurping, teasing lick that makes John all but melt in the mayor’s chair. Nate’s hands are sliding up and down his thighs, tense with restraint and anticipation.

 

“This is true. With dick-sucking talents like yours, as mayor, I shoulda awarded you a medal after that first night.” When Nate’s brows shoot up in instant interest and his face flushes so deep it’s visible, John shakes his head, brushing his knuckles along Nate’s stubbly jawline. “Hmm. Badass, dick-sucking baby likes the bling? Color me surprised.”

 

“Mm.  _Not_  the bling, so much as having something gaze-drawing and convenient to tell the world whose badass, dick-sucking baby I am. Also, the idea of having an impromptu collar and leash from you, in the form of a swanky medal—to wear under my gear, and when I’m wearing nothing else . . . something for you to tug on and use to command me without a wasted word—is . . . appealing,” Nate says with breathless sincerity. His eyes glitter almost feverishly as they lock with John’s.

 

“You want a _real_  collar and leash, sunshine,” John says, equally breathless, leaning in closer as Nate does the same. His finger trails down Nate’s throat, admiring and aching with not-entirely-new sets of wants and needs. “You want the real-deal, I’ll make ‘em for you, myself. And  _nobody’ll_  ever doubt who you belong to, whether they can see ‘em or not. If you wanna be my kept-lady for the rest of ever, I’ll make that happen. Say the word, Nathan.”

 

Nate’s eyes widen, and he swallows: obviously turned on. But the nonstop bob of his Adam’s apple hints pretty broadly at another emotion altogether. One that’s not unrelated. As does the tension-release slump of his strong shoulders. Both speak of a deep and impossible to hide reaction.

 

Of  _relief_  so great, it renders Nate’s entire body ragdoll-limp, but for his scarf-wrapped dick.

 

With the relieved and submissive posture, and Nate’s often sudden and raw vulnerability—never suddener and rawer than this moment—it’s not at all difficult to imagine his Vaultie wearing other sorts of ornamentation . . . necklaces and bracelets that would be created by John’s hands, as well. The sort of claiming jewelry that John already knows would and does mean a fuck of a lot more to both of them than rose-gold rings or cigar-bands. The kind that would need  _at least_  weekly re-creating, especially with Nate’s copper-dark skin and the way he shrugs off minor injuries and contusions.

 

“The Mayor of Goodneighbor should probably take some hired muscle on his walk, so,” Nate mumbles, dropping his gaze once again, that slight brow-furrow back to stay a bit. His lashes flutter and shutter his dark eyes for a few moments before he gazes up into John’s again. That gaze and his entire expression are now open-wide and readable. Anxious, and too broken-open and hopeful for prolonged holding. “I . . . I gladly volunteer my services.” His voice is gruff, low, and a little choked and sad, as if he half-expects immediate refusal. His Adam’s apple is bobbing frantically. “Any of my services. All of them. I mean, if you haven’t drafted and settled on Fahrenheit or someone else, yet. Whatever you might need or want on your walk, John . . . I’d make it my entire mission to be it or to get it for you. And I’d stay by your side until and unless you didn’t want that anymore.”

 

John starts swallowing, too, but it’s no use. His heart won’t get unlodged from his damn throat. “So . . . for always, then? Bitchin’. But you, ah . . . are you sure you’re up to the challenge of being the loyal and slutty—not to mention deadly-at-a-moment’s-notice—companion of an exquisitely handsome and devastatingly charming Ghoul Drifter? You _sure_  you want _me_ to be your, ah . . . never-ending mission?”

 

Nate smiles, small and serious, his eyes all glitter and naked yearning. All the truth John’s ever wanted, wrapped in beauty and ferocity, sweetness and craziness, familiarity and fondness. “John, you’re the surest thing I’ve ever had. Only the second real choice I’ve ever made for myself, and . . . the best one. I’d follow you anywhere and stick by you through anything. Don’t  _ever_  doubt that.”

 

“I don’t,” John says, his own Adam’s apple now bobbing-bobbing-bobbing. Then his entire throat and soul ache as the rapid build of realization sweeps through him like fire through a cornfield. “And there was  _never_  any doubt I’d  _take you with me_ , sunshine. No doubt, whatsoever. At least, no doubts for  _me_. Only question, as far as I was concerned, was whether _you_ would _wanna_ come with me, trampin’ all over the damn Commonwealth. But I’ll admit . . . I woulda stayed put till I convinced ya, however long that took.”

 

Nate’s lips twitch then he bites the bottom one. His eyes are still intent and intense . . . deeper than the endless gulf between stars, but not empty. Full-full-full of  _everything_. “You’da put off your walk just to . . . _convince_ me, huh, Johnny?”

 

Slouching back in his mayor’s chair, John smirks and affects a nonchalance that’d be belied by the rush of his heart and blood, if Nate could currently hear or feel either. “Mmhmm . . . _so_ slow and sweet and _good_ , brother, we’d have had to stay here a little longer, still, till we were recovered for prolonged walkin’. Or for walkin’, at all,” he adds in a drawn-out drawl.

 

“Tell me more.” Those dark, endless eyes flash and burn and _yearn_ as Nate stands slow, graceful, and sexily sinuous, hands on his long, strong thighs and deliberately framing his flushed, circumcised, gently upward-curving dick. The chartreuse of the scarf wrapped and tied loosely around said dick compliments Nate’s ruddy-dark complexion. Despite the tentative and grave subtext of the conversation, John’s hard enough to pound an entire town’s-worth of nails. “Would you have bent me over the desk and . . . enacted some legislation, Mr. Mayor?”

 

“As many desks and as much legislation as I could get away with, _Mrs._  Mayor. Fuck, yeah,” John murmurs, licking his lips and holding up his right hand. He twirls his index finger lazily: a familiar gesture that makes Nate smirk and execute a saucy, attitude-y spin. One that gives John a nice, long view of Nate’s ass.

 

He leans forward to grab and squeeze and hold open—pursuant to kissing and biting and tonguing Nate to gasping, stammering incoherence—before he even registers the instantaneous _need_ driving him. But Nate, smirking and waggling his eyebrows at John from over his left shoulder, quickly faces John again. His crafty expression fades into one of striking and naked vulnerability when John grasps his hips and leans in to press kisses along the length of his cravat-festooned dick.

 

“Leaving without you was never and will never be an option, love,” John whispers on Nate’s left thigh, and Nate shivers. “Y’hear that, Nathan?”

 

“I—I hear it, Johnny.” The quiver and quaver in that voice sounds like breathless sobs held in and in and in. And as if they’ve been held in for a lifetime. John’s chest aches for Nate, as it almost always has. As it always will, because Nate deserves _more_. He’s never gotten all that he deserves and never will, even for all of John’s trying, and everyone else’s. That’s a travesty with which John sometimes deals better or worse, depending on the day. On the moment.

 

“Good. You _believe_ it, sunshine?” he asks, his own voice a bit shaky and frustration-heavy— _tear_ -heavy—as he stuffs down rare feelings of inadequacy born of the unleavened intensity of his adoration for Nate.

 

His eyes as huge as any awed and attentive child, Nate nods with poignant hesitance, then draws a deep, hitching breath. He nods again, with more certainty. “ _You’ve_ never been the one I doubted, John. I don’t intend to start now.”

 

“Good. That’s . . . good that we’re on the same page, as always. Huh. I think tonight,” John begins, swallowing and hoarse,  _beyond_  ready and desperate to change the subject and tone for _both_ their sakes. He stands and puts his hands on Nate’s hips, gentle, but owning. “Tonight, I’mma need to put the cockring on _you_.”

 

Nate groans, loud and long and utterly concurring. Fervent, even. “ _Yesssss_. . . .”

 

“Wow—instant agreement. Think the dick is gonna be _that_  good tonight, huh? I’m flattered, love.”

 

“ _I know_  it’s gonna be that good, Johnny. It’s that good _every_ night. Every night.” Nate licks his lips and it’s the sexiest, most brain-melting thing John’s ever seen. “I really need you to keep a short leash on me, tonight. Keep me from flying apart just because I’m so fucking. . . .” his smile is bright-sad-happy-fleeting. Gone. “ _You,_  deciding when and how I come—if I get to come at all—turns every crank I have, Mr. Mayor. I want all of that and more with you, for as long as possible and as often. The pleasure  _and_  the punitive measures; the discipline _and_  reward. All rolled into one.”

 

John blinks and exhales a held breath, eyes wide and mouth agape. “’Sat how you want it tonight, sunshine? For sure? The  _real_  hard-stuff?”

 

Nate holds John’s gaze steadily, still naked and intense. “Yes,” he says plainly, and John groans, grabbing his dick so he doesn’t come. It’s a minute before he can trust that he won’t, and without his tightest choke-hold as reassurance. “I want you to wreck me like I wandered off for five months, then came back a chaste, chastened, and desperate prodigal.”

 

John doesn’t even wince at the mention of Nate doing his runner, nearly a full year ago, now. He just grins and grins and  _wants_. “Hot damn, brother. You know you’re my favorite-est Vaultie ever, right?”

 

“Actions speak louder than words, Your Honor.”

 

“Sure do.” Grabbing and squeezing Nate’s wrist, before firmly twisting that strong arm up behind Nate’s back, John smirks. Under his aggressive clamp, his old, checkered bandanna—Nate’s gauntlet, still clean, and alternately dark-blue and cloud-white, but a bit faded, now—is damp with Nate’s sweat. It only barely pads the corded tendons and implacable bone caught in John’s testing grip.

 

He wonders, not for the first time—sad and wistful, wishful and melancholy—what phrase that hard-working, long-suffering snot-rag covers. Whether it even matters anymore to either of them, what with both their choices  _chose_ , for good or for ill, for better or for worse. It sure wouldn’t stop John from taking every bit of gorgeous, trembling-eager Vaultie on offer. Never has, never will.

 

In fact, lately he’s not taken by feelings of jealousy anymore when thinking of the late Mrs. Badass and how she’d held such a place of pride and supremacy in Nate’s utterly loyal heart. He’s not intimidated that Nate’d loved her so immovably, that her death had nearly eradicated him completely, and with no resistance from himself until well after he’d landed in John’s bed.

 

Now, John’s amazed to feel a strangely deep kinship with her. The sort of relatability that he’d also call synergy with a kindred spirit, even though it’s very different from what he felt and feels for his mother, and eons apart from what he feels and always will for Nate.

 

In an odd, but powerful and undeniable way, John Hancock has never felt closer to anyone,  _not even_  Nate and not even his Mama, than he does with Mrs. Badass. In the brief hours of rest Nate occasionally succumbs to, he almost always ends up moaning three names in broken tones of abject despair within an hour of having closed his eyes: _Shaun, Jenny_ , and _John_ (John’s heart fills and breaks that _his name_ is moaned most often and most wrenchingly).

 

John now realizes and accepts that loving and being loved by Nate Redcastle is a terrible privilege _and_ divine responsibility. It’s a love on which can be placed no price-tag or qualifier, not even _’til death_ or _’til the end of the world_. . . or even _forever_. Not really. And only two people have been so blessed. To be jealous of the only other person to have been similarly sanctified would be like being jealous of  _himself_.

 

Lately . . . John’s taken strength from thoughts of Jenny Redcastle. Of their shared conviction and loyalty to the man they’d both chosen and dedicated themselves to for the eternity that stretched beyond love’s existence and their own.

 

John strokes the bandanna-gauntlet then pins it, and Nate’s wrist and hand to the small of Nate’s back. He smiles up into naked, defenseless, abyss-dark eyes, then chuckles and bounces up on tiptoe to buss lips that immediately pucker in anticipation, then part in welcome.

 

“C’mon, love,” John eventually murmurs into Nate’s aggressively submissive kisses and nips, his hand on Nate’s hip squeezing companionably. “Let’s, uh, rest-up a bit, before that good, long aggro-fuck, huh? Stretch out in bed an’ cuddle like bunnies, for a while.”

 

“Um . . . that’s not what bunnies do, last _I_ heard.” Nate snorts and leans back to give John an amused look. “Seriously, though? _Just_ cuddle?”

 

“For a little while, at first. Sure, why not?”

 

“Uhhh, because you’re still hard.”

 

“So’re you.”

 

Nate shrugs dismissively, but he’s still smiling as he shakes his head. “But it shall be as His Honor commands. Oh—” Nate halts them just as John starts steering them toward their bedroom. He snatches something up off the desk then holds it up for John to see, shaking the bottle so that the remainder of the Daytripper rattles. “Forgetting something?”

 

Smirking, John takes the proffered bottle, makes a big show of scanning it, then tosses it out the balcony door. A moment later, there’s an indignant squawk. Then: “God _damnit_ , Hancock, you fucking di— _heeeeeeyyyyy! Thanks, Hancock_! You’re the best, man!  **Of the people,** _ **for**_ **the people!**  Fuck, yeah!”

 

Followed by jubilant whoops that fade westward and into the distance. John holds Nate’s still amused and now slightly confused gaze.

 

“Nah, love,” he drawls, shrugging once more, hapless, but sincere. “Already got all the euphoria I need right here with me.”

 

Nate’s eyes widen, and he blushes so deep and fast, John’s briefly afraid he’ll pass out. But then Nate grins, big and boyish and pleased.

 

“You’re literally sixty-three percent rads and twenty-eight percent cheese, John Hancock,” he says, but he’s beaming brighter than the moon when he says it. John beams right back.

 

“What about that last nine percent? What’s that? Good looks? Charm? Intelligence?”

 

Nate waggles his brows and reaches up to his head to tip John’s tricorne—which is practically falling off him, anyway—back pointedly. Around it, all that grown-out, thatchy-dark hair looks like an electrocuted hedgehog’s ass on a very humid day. “Questionable taste in head-gear, Your Honor.”

 

Then he yelps and laughs when John pinches his right asscheek a good one and squires him bedward.

 

 

* * *

 

***Lady Macbeth:**

**Out, damned spot! out, I say!—One: two: why,**

**then, 'tis time to do't.—Hell is murky!—Fie, my**

**lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we**

**fear who knows it, when none can call our power to**

**account?—Yet who would have thought the old man**

**to have had so much blood in him?**

**—Macbeth, V.i.39-44**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Brief End-y/Note-Bit :**
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>  **Source:** http://www.shakespeare-online.com/plays/macbeth_5_1.html
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>  **Resource:** https://www.enotes.com/homework-help/what-does-macbeth-passage-mean-spot-587266
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> Oh, yes. Nathan Redcastle wasn't born with a bayonet in his tiny baby-fist. He was and is a HUGE theater- and literary-geek. But I wouldn't recommend saying that to his face disparagingly, though.  
> ::shrugs::


	8. 6. PSYCHOBUFF????

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An origins-story gets told and other things get said. The next day, John and Nate take their Walk. It isn’t long before they find themselves in a familiar, supposedly abandoned town, that has a huge Raider problem . . . among other things. And upon fighting their way into the Museum of Freedom, where the last of some besieged and unlucky settlers are making a final stand, it soon becomes clear that getting out of Concord unscathed—or even just alive—is a rapidly shrinking likelihood. . . .
> 
> Or it would be, if John—and apparently everyone else now under Nate’s relentless protection— _didn’t_ believe one true and heartening thing: If anyone can get them all out of the Museum and Concord alive, it’ll be a supernaturally _badass_ , _preternatural_ killing-machine of a Vault-Dweller . . . wearing fuckin’ _cherry_ power armor and wielding a vertibird minigun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes/Warnings: Rearrangement of canon timeline events. Set pre- and during ‘Out of Time’ and ‘When Freedom Calls’ quests. SPOILERS. Mentions of canon characters and events. Mentions of violence, and severe injury to a major character. Implied murderous rampage. Implied drug use and abuse.

“Listen, brother, I . . . ya mind if I tell ya somethin’?” John huffs breathlessly, late on the eve of their imminent journey. “Before we take our walking-tour of the Commonwealth?”

 

It’s difficult for John to think or even talk, what with Nate having _very_ recently spent nearly two hours alternately edging him and slowly sucking his brains out via his dick. _Then,_ upon completion of that noble mission, collapsing on top of John after _quickly_ humping his own way to an orgasm that’d nonetheless sounded pretty damned satisfying.

 

Even now, a good way into their afterglow, Nate’s still panting on John’s shoulder, hot, humid, and blissfully winded.

 

John’s _never_ loved anyone more. Not anyone.

 

“’Course, Johnny . . . ’zup?” Nate mumbles on John’s shoulder, in a warm-wet tickle that makes him shiver all over. He hugs Nate tighter and tries to focus on what he wants to say— _has been wanting to say_ for some time.

 

“I, uh . . . I feel like I should mention . . . there’s some stuff that you’ve had to deal with since we met.” John swallows and doesn’t open his eyes. He’s not high tonight, just a little sloshed. But he still doesn’t want to risk his opinionated ceiling nagging him to do what he’s already in the middle of doing.

 

Nate hums, curious, but half-asleep.

 

“There’s things I ain’t proud of puttin’ on these shoulders of yours, no matter how strong they are. Pickman Gallery, for instance. Or goddamn _Bobbi-no-nose_ —”

 

Nate doesn’t so much as shift in John’s arms, but his entire body tenses. His breathing picks up into a more controlled and efficient rhythm, rather than that gentle, relaxed one even John rarely witnesses.

 

“I’ve seen far worse than the Pickman Gallery and had even well-before the War. As for Bobbi. . . .” Nate sighs, his exhalation measured and cool on John’s neck, unlike his face, which is hot on John’s left shoulder. “The only one who’s got a fat lot of nothing to be proud of regarding that incident, is me.”

 

“I loved you and was choosing you even back then, sunshine. That _I’m_ directly responsible for sendin' you into _Pickman Gallery_ , into evil and horror and trauma you needed like an extra hole in the head kinda gives lie to that. And that ain’t off the mark for Bobbi and her bullshit, either.”

 

“You didn’t _intend_ —” Nate starts to say.

 

“Intentions don’t do fucking _shit_ to bring back the dead, or bring back happier times. Or trust and love, when they’re lost. Thrown away, over stupid shit,” John interrupts, grim, gruff, and quiet. Angry at himself a year-plus later, with the gift of calmer perspective and greater, clearer self-knowledge. “Sometimes, the only thing good intentions seem to be good _for,_ is pavin’ the short-cut to Hell.”

 

Nate sighs again and starts to shift in John’s arms, as if he’s about to brace himself for sitting up and arguing otherwise. But he settles huffily when John hugs him tighter, murmuring a plea for stillness and forbearance.

 

“That sorta . . . dictatorial shit—turnin’-my-people-into-my-flunkies crap ain’t my style. Or wasn’t, once upon a time.” John squinches his eyes shut hard and swallows around the lump of bitter guilt and self-disappointment lodging itself in his throat. “When I started havin’ suspicions about Bobbi tryin’ to work you to get to me, I shoulda just talked to you, instead of sending Fahrenheit to spy on you and either do, or let _you do_ my damn dirty work.”

 

“Johnny—”

 

“I had _no right_ to put that on you for _any_ reason. No right to claim the fuckin’ moral high-ground when you came back to Goodneighbor, after only runnin’ off to try and protect yourself from _more_ hurt and trauma that _I threw at you_. Or threw _you at_ , and _not even_ with the shiniest of intentions as I did.”

 

Nate clutches John right back, tight and protective, and nuzzles his neck, his jaw, his cheek. “Bobbi-no-nose lied to and tricked a _lot_ of people, John. At least one, too many, I’d say.” His growl is at odds with the gentility of his physical affection: low, predatory, and barely even words. But his face feels eerily still . . . like that of a handsome mannequin. “She wanted to hurt you. And she chose me— _specifically me_ —to make that happen. With no regard for what that would’ve _done_ to me, and _every intention_ of maximizing what it could have done to _you_. She’s lucky I let her die as quick as I did. That was a mercy that was neither necessary or warranted, all things considered, and I’ve done _far_ worse than _kill_ for far _less reason_ than some asshole hurting the person I love most.”

 

Shuddering, John turns his face into Nate’s messy hair, inhaling the familiar scent of it and letting stubborn, coarse-spiky locks poke at his face. He does his best not to picture the flat, distant glitter that’s most likely in Nate’s eyes. John knows that he’s unlikely to head-off his Vaultie’s potential _Mood_ , and that the only thing for it, if it comes to pass, is to back-off and away. Keep an eye on Nate, of course, but give him ample physical and emotional space for at least a day or two.

 

Then, depending on the change in mood, for either better or worse, respectively . . . spend a good, solid day loving and fucking the warmth and _humanity_ back into his Vaultie. . . .

 

Or send him out into the Commonwealth for a few days or even weeks, to hunt-down and kill-off however many marauding baddies it takes to bank the dead-cold fire that sometimes kindles, and sometimes _rages_ in his Vaultie’s soul . . . but never gutters completely or permanently.

 

Neither course is optimal, with their Walk due to start in less than twelve hours. But John would roll with anything, if it means helping his Vaultie cope in one of the few ways that’s effective.

 

“Bottom line is, brother, I don’t like seein’ guys like me usin’ their sway to do that kinda harm. And without even havin’ the decency to get their own hands bloody. Hell,” John grumbled, feeling almost as dismayed as he is ashamed of some of the selfish stunts he’s taken to pulling, from way before this Walk . . . and even before his Vaultie. “Bullshit like that’s the reason I became mayor, y’know? Before I literally took office, this asshole named Vic ran Goodneighbor for . . . shit, I dunno how long. _Too_ long. And he was scum.

 

“He used us Drifters like his own personal piggy-bank. And he had this goon-squad of bullies, Raider-castoffs, and feral whackjobs who were just like him. He used _them_ to keep Goodneighbor in line. Every so often, he’d let ‘em off the leash—send ‘em to blow-off steam on the populace-at-large. Folks with homes? Hell, they could lock their doors. But us Drifters?” John laughs, brief and bitter, and lets his mind skate as lightly as possible over one of the worst times and most awful sets of experiences he’s lived through . . . and the too-frequent times in too many _aftermaths_ when he’d heartily wished he hadn’t. And the once or twice he’d been tempted to make that wish come true. “We . . . got it _bad_ , sunshine.”

 

Nate’s mannequin-still face has been thawing a little, his breathing growing more natural as John speaks, and now, that face _and_ that breath quiver on John’s shoulder and neck. “I’m so sorry, John.”

 

“Not your fault, love. And there’s nothin’ you coulda done. It was what it was.”

 

Nate’s expression quivers again and his breath is growing a bit uneven and labored. John knows Nate’s fighting some sort of panic-reaction—shakes, sobs, or raging . . . or all three—at the thought of someone hurting _his Johnny_.

 

He hadn’t meant to end his long-time-coming confession on this kind of note or story, but he knows that Nate won’t rest—nor will he—until the tale’s told through to the end. So, he sighs and kisses Nate’s crown.

 

“This one night, a Drifter everyone called Barry Bones said some fool-thing to Vic’s boys. Can’t even remember what he said, exactly. Just that he shoulda known better, but never had. Talkin’ shit was kinda his Em-Oh, and _everyone_ knew that. Knew not to take it _personal_ or think it meant anything but him runnin’ his fuckin’ gob. But Vic’s boys didn’t care. They cracked Barry open like a can of Cram on the pavement. And we, Barry’s fellow Drifters . . . _his friends_ . . . we just stood there: silent and doin’ fuckin’ _nothin’_.”

 

Nate shakes his head and lets out a long, warm-gusting breath. “John . . . you were outmatched. Outnumbered and likely outclassed. There was _nothing_ you could’ve done to change or prevent what happened to your friend. _You_ just might’ve ended up cracked-open, too.”

 

“Y’ain’t wrong, brother,” John agrees quietly, as grim and certain as Nate had been minutes ago. “But it was still spineless of me. Fucking _craven_.” Opening his eyes to look up at the blank, silent ceiling for a minute, John then takes a slow, shallow breath and closes his eyes again, ignoring the stinging and prickling on their backs. “I felt worse than worthless after that. Even more than I’d felt since Diamond City. I got so drunk and high, I blacked out completely and, when I finally came-to, I was on the floor of the Old State House. Right in front of the clothes of the original John Hancock: the first American hoodlum and Defender of the People.

 

“And I might’ve still been high—shit, I _was definitely_ still pretty high—but those clothes spoke to me, nonetheless. They _spoke_ to me, brother. Told me what needed to happen— _what I needed to do_ , loud and clear. So, I smashed the glass case and took ‘em. Put ‘em on, right then and there, and started a new life. As _Hancock_.”

 

John falls silent for a minute, letting his mind and heart drift a little on the sweet, simple rightness of Nate Redcastle curled up and sprawled on him. For such a tall and strapping—if sparely so—guy, Nate _always_ tinys-up _real_ nice in John’s arms. “I went clean after that. For a while, anyway,” he adds with a wry smirk. “Got organized. Even convinced Kleo to loan me some hardware. Then, I rounded up a bunch of Drifters I could trust—real quiet-like. And we went out to the ruins to start trainin’. Next time Vic’s boys went on their tear, we’d be ready for ‘em.”

 

Nate hums thoughtfully, but not sleepily, like before. John has, as ever, all of his Vaultie’s intense attention. “Can I ask . . . do you really think those clothes spoke to you, John?” he asks rather timidly, as if he’s afraid to believe _or_ question, but also too curious and determined to remain in suspenseful ignorance, either. John chuckles, stroking up and down Nate’s bicep.

 

“Nah, sunshine. I just felt . . . a connection, y’know? Like Original Recipe and I were dealing with the same kinda shit: _serious-fucking-oppression_.”

 

Nate makes a soft, commiserating sound that’s more than compassion . . . it’s gut-level empathy and understanding. Nate may not exactly get being inspired by the clothes of a dead hero, but he’s been inspired by the life or legacy of a dead _somebody_ , at least once in his life. And he gets that a dead man’s legacy can speak his words and ideas, long after the man, himself, has gone the way of the worm.

 

“One night, when Vic’s boys were too busy gettin’ good an’ hammered to be effective at tear-assing through town, my crew and I got locked and loaded. Laid in wait in windows and rooftops and waited for ‘em to stagger into our kill-gallery. When they did, and we had ‘em surrounded, we burst from cover, silent as their graves. They never saw us comin’ and we didn’t have to fire a shot.” His smirk gone wider and colder, John snorts. “Didn’t _have to_ , but we sure as fuck _did_. It was a goddamn massacre, brother. And one of the best things I’ve ever done.”

 

Nate’s breath catches for a few moments . . . then he sighs, soft and slow. “Good riddance, then.”

 

“Truer words, love. And after we’d mopped up, we strolled right into Vic’s quarters in the State House. Woke his ass up and put a noose around his lack-of-neck. Then we dragged him to the balcony and gave him back to the people.” John also sighs again, happy and proud, warmed by more than rads, and more than Nate’s love and body-heat. “When Vic stopped dancin’ his last jig, there _I_ was, gun in hand, still wearin’ John Hancock’s duds, and gawpin’ at all the people of Goodneighbor, crowdin’ below. They were gawpin’ right back, waitin’. I had to say _somethin’_. So, I did. That first time, they didn’t even feel like _my words_. Didn’t even feel like it was _me sayin’_ ‘em. But every time, thereafter, they only felt righter and righter. Still do.”

 

“ _Of the people, for the people_ ,” Nate murmurs against John’s shoulder in a voice that’s trembling and reverent.

 

“ _Of the people, for the people_ , love. Yeah-yeah-yeah.” John grins and laughs. “You could say it was my inaugural address. I _became John Hancock_ , that night—in that _moment._ And that’s the guy I’ve been ever since: John Hancock, Mayor of Goodneighbor. **_I vowed I would never be silent again, and never stand by and watch as evil won. Not ever, ever again._** And I’ve kept that promise.”

 

Nate shivers, then shudders, then turns his face in toward John’s neck and clings closer, still. His mouth is curved in a trembly-small smile, but his face is wet with what could only be tears. When he starts practically giggling, sounding like the lunatic he actually is, John’s utterly lost. At a loss for words. Lost as to what on _Earth_ Nate finds so scary-giggly-sad. . . .

 

Lost _so deep in love_ , he wouldn’t and couldn’t even _think_ to look for a way out . . . let alone actually find one if he did.

 

“You _fucker_ ,” Nate chortle-mumbles on John’s tear-, and now spit-wet collarbone. “My whole face aches, now.”

 

“Yeah, well. That face’s always just about _killed_ me, so, serves ya right.” A beat passes in which John laughs, too. But he manages to get his next words out fairly straight. “Also I’m glad my origins-story is so damned amusin’ to ya, jackass.”

 

“It’s not. It’s _not_ ,” Nate insists, frustrated, but still giggling uncontrollably, with his achy face tucked against John’s neck again. And as John’s collarbone gets wetter and wetter with Nate’s happy-tears and giggle-drool, he starts grinning until his own face twinges a little. “I can’t even accurately convey how touched, awed, and inspired I am by your origins-story and that you _trust me_ with it. And in this moment, I’ve never loved you or _anyone_ this much—so much that even if that love _kills me right now_ , I’d die happy.”

 

And then, Nate giggles _even harder_ —until he’s actually wheezing. John sighs, long and melodramatic. “I’m bowled over by your sincerity. I thought shit _this_ romantic only happened in pre-War novels and movies.”

 

“You’re such a _dick_ , John Hancock. _Nine hundred percent dick_.” That statement’s book-ended by more wheezy, helpless giggling that does John’s heart a world of good, though he maintains his snarky gameface.

 

“Just gimme a few more minutes, Giggles, and I’ll _show ya_ nine hundred percent dick.”

 

“ _Ugh_ ,” Nate huffs through his giggles, but having been so subtly reminded, his talented hand teases its way down John’s body, rambling dick-ward. He then multitasks getting John hard again and giggling himself toward barfing, if John’s any judge. But as he gets harder and deeper into the way Nate’s working him, Nate’s giggles wind-down. By the time John’s ready to wreak some serious havoc in a most dicking fashion, Nate’s composed himself. Without stopping or even slowing his cock-teasing, he takes a few hiccupy, steadying breaths that come back out with a few final straggler-giggles. Then with a relieved groan he sits up a little to look into John’s eyes. His bright-dark ones are dancing and unguarded . . . _crazy-in-love_ and _glowing_ in their given-over joy.

 

Nate Redcastle is absolutely radiant in a way no amount of mere rads could ever confer.

 

“In all seriousness . . . I love you, Johnny. And I _vow_ to always stand with you and for you. I’ll support you in speaking out and acting up, and do my best to pull my own weight, regarding both. Neither of us will ever again let evil win without giving it the fight of our lives. Not ever, _ever_ again.” The flicker and flash of Nate’s eyes is beautiful and fierce, and all the fire and faith John had once been too afraid to wish for. “We’ll take care of Goodneighbor _and_ the Commonwealth _together_ : back to back and side by side.”

 

“By our powers, combined, huh?” John quips after a long and loaded—overwhelmed and silent minute has passed. Nate rolls his eyes, but grins and glows even brighter. John leans in to kiss him, tender and sweet. “Ah, don’t mind my assholery, pretty-eyes. I love you, too, and I’ve got your back till next-Armageddon and beyond. And I’m _over the fucking moon_ that, as always, you _get_ where I’m comin’ from and where I’m lookin’ to _go_. That _you’re_ goin’ there _with me_ . . . and that neither of us is out to harm _anyone_ that didn’t earn it.”

 

Nate has that half-goofy, lost-in-love look again, deep as oceans and purer than starshine . . . then it turns downright sly and sensual. Wicked and wanton and more than enough to rev John’s always-primed engine.

 

“So, as I recall, soon-to-be Citizen John, you mentioned something about . . . _nine hundred percent dick_. Care to elaborate on that. . . ?” Nate drawls, then yelps excitedly as John starts to do just that, with a smoothly executed tackle/takedown. He pins Nate bodily to their bed, his hands clamped on one bare wrist and one gauntleted wrist.

 

They stare into each other’s eyes, grinning and panting, and high on love, hormones, and anticipation. Then they vigorously resume putting their poor bed through its paces one last time. At least for the foreseeable future.

 

 

#

 

It isn’t such a surprise that sooner, rather than later, within a week of vamoosing from Goodneighbor, in fact—and giving a wide, careful berth of Diamond City and the shitshow of injustice and evil that it’s come to represent for John—he and Nate stumble across real trouble that’s not just _some_ Raiders.

 

It’s a huge _pants-load_ of Raiders, holed-up in Concord, not twenty-five miles from Greater Boston.

 

The only reason he and Nate even decide to stop in Concord, rather than just go around, en route to Sanctuary Hills, is because John gets a bug up his ass about the damn place. And _that_ because of Nate’s sad, offhand musing about the Museum of Freedom and his memories of the place and its exhibits.

 

The name alone makes this museum sound like something John absolutely _has_ to give a look-see, despite Nate’s realistic, but kindly caveat that it might not even be standing. Because even if the place is gone to wrack and ruin, the last time a museum-display spoke to John, he’d wound up killing a tyrant and becoming a mayor.

 

So, he’s got a soft-spot for museums.

 

And upon recognizing John’s pointed, persistent, and vested interest, Nate smiles and sighs— _caves_. Since leaving Goodneighbor, he’s been wearing the mask and mantle of _the baddest of asses_ almost constantly. Even John’s had to acknowledge that that mask and mantle has likely saved them from obnoxiousness and hassle from gangs, Raiders, and desperate Drifters. And has likely kept some real distance between them and potentially _fatal_ trouble, too.

 

And yet, for John, Nate’s cold-blooded, killing-machine façade never fails to crack easily and gratefully—even now. And Nate, himself, never fails to offer quiet, but warm and undeniable affection at a moment’s notice. Not just in that sappy smile, but in his soft, lingering, _awed_ gaze. As if John’s the most amazing thing he’s ever witnessed.

 

When John returns the smile with a crooked grin—gruesome as anything, but somehow always able to inspire beams of utter devotion, attractive flushes of particular yearning, and flatteringly distracted sighs from his Vaultie’s void-deep gaze and void-deep _being_ , respectively—Nate bumps purposely, gently into John as they amble along in no kind of hurry.

 

Since they started their Walk, Nate hasn’t resumed booby-trapping himself, as he once had been until he’d returned from his five months-runner last year.

 

(“If it’s a toss-up between me feeling always defended and protected, twenty-four-seven . . . and _you_ being certain you can touch me _whenever and however you want_ . . . there’s no contest, John,” Nate had murmured sleepily, when John had asked about the left-behind traps and hardware.

 

It’d been the first night of their Walk, and they’d been in the fringes of Greater Boston West. Nate had been the one to suggest camping on the roof of a sturdy, brick three-story that hadn’t so much as creaked or groaned in the occasionally stiff-ish wind. After a quick, cold dinner of rations, they’d bunked out of that wind behind a small, also-sturdy structure on the roof, which might’ve once been some kind of bird-coop.

 

Blinking up at stars and lazily groping each other, they’d traded increasingly unintelligible whisper-yawns and occasional kisses. John had mentioned the M.I.A. traps in passing and Nate’s response had been to drop that devastating love-bomb. But despite its near-silent detonation, John had suddenly found himself _wide-fucking-awake_ , and with more than enough energy and determination to check and _make sure_ his Vaultie had been _totally_ trap-free, after all. Every gorgeous inch and crevice of him, and every memorized nook and cranny.)

 

“I take it you wanna detour into town, then? Check it out?” Nate asks almost wryly, and while suddenly dragging John off the road and into the scraggly, but plentiful woods to the right side of it. Even in the markedly dimmer light under the gray-green leaves, Nate’s copper-complexioned cheeks are quite deeply flushed. “It might still be . . . semi-intact.”

 

“ _Might_ ,” John allows mildly, backing Nate further from the road, still, when it becomes clear Nate is only aiming for a bare minimum of safety and privacy. But John doesn’t stop until all ideas of a road could easily be a lie, pointedly maintaining near-flush closeness and grabbing a rough, possessive handful of the most perfect right asscheek ever to grace a pair of trousers. As they stumble away from their road for what’ll probably be a not-unprecedented-nooner, their legs tangle and tango, but somehow without toppling them over. “Might _also_ be a huge and unnecessary risk, Vaultie.”

 

Nate gives John one of those smoldering, but otherwise impossible to parse _looks_ of his, as John crowds him up against a massive, old-growth tree. “Might be that, too. But as long as I’ve got your back and you’ve got mine, the huge and unnecessary risks had better watch out for _us_.”

 

A good while after _that_ , when the afternoon’s nearly a quarter-gone, they make their way back toward the road: holding hands and walking close, flushed (in Nate’s case) and smirking. Disheveled and utterly unable to move faster than a slightly accelerated meander. When the brightening sunlight heralds their closeness to the treeline, John quickly hauls Nate in for a long, hard, _hungry_ kiss that they both moan their way through, despite the nearly two hours prior of John pinning Nate to various trees.

 

Nate finally breaks the tenacious, thorough kiss and chuckles breathlessly. “C’mon, Johnny. You can finish licking my tonsils and further bruising my ass _after_ the museum. We’ll find a clear, defensible place on the northern outskirts and call it an early night, and you can go to town on me. But I don’t wanna be out wandering around the Ghost of Concord-Past after dark.”

 

Squeezing Nate tighter for a few moments (including that perfectly, _beautifully_ bruisable ass), John nods, frowning a little as he notes the absently uneasy cast stealing across Nate’s mostly-relaxed face.

 

“Always do as the Vaultie orders,” he agrees, then leans in to buss Nate’s lower lip, lingering only for a few moments. “Thanks, sunshine. You’re a genuine sweetheart, and I appreciate you. I _love_ you.”

 

“And I love _you_ , John Hancock. As is proven by the fancy places I’m taking you,” Nate demurs with a quiet laugh that turns into another soft, desperate moan when John’s squeezing intensifies for a couple moments, then eases.

 

Because getting half-hard and all-distracted, practically out in the open, where any-ol’-Raiders or other menace could ghost either of them, is way too much unnecessary risk in a day that’s only likely to end after at least several of those.

 

Seeming to recall that simultaneously, Nate sighs and pouts. “You’d damn-well _better_ put-out tonight, Citizen John,” he says sulkily, and only half-joking.

 

“’Course, I will, sunshine. I just hope you’re okay with hobblin’ rather than walkin’ for the next day or so, after.” _Until we get to Sanctuary Hills and Vault 111_ , goes unspoken by John, yet is undoubtedly acknowledged by Nate, whose sultry sulking turns a bit forced.

 

“Tease. I’m _already_ hobbling, and practically bow-legged.” He huffs then steps back a little. But he and John are still holding hands when, as one, they turn back toward the nearby road to Concord. Once on that road, Nate seems to get grimmer and more silent, at greater speed than ever since they left Goodneighbor.

 

Though John hadn’t ever expressed particularity over a destination since declaring his need for a Walk—and _Nate_ hadn’t mentioned out loud any destinations _he_ might’ve had in mind—John’d still had a feeling that they’d make their way northwest. Make their way to Sanctuary Hills, once it’d become obvious he was leaving the _wheres_ up to Nate.

 

Because, if nothing else, Nate had maybe been _needing_ that—needing to _go back_ , since waking from his two hundred-plus years of cryo-sleep. Since fighting his way free of the nightmare that’d been his dead Vault and its collection of vicious, inbred radroaches.

 

Once free of that place, he’d gone miles and miles out of his way to avoid Sanctuary Hills and other satellites of the small, nearby city of Concord. Shell-shocked, starving— _grieving_ —and stark-raving- _mad_ for the first few weeks after his escape, even now, Nate’s not inclined or even able to give a clear, point-by-point accounting of that time. And John doesn’t press him for one. It’s more than enough to break John’s irradiated heart knowing Nate’d lived on the fringes of the Commonwealth’s farther-flung, smaller settlements in survival-mode, for approximately nine jumbled, near-sleepless weeks: killing and stealing like blinking and breathing. Mourning and raging. Acclimating and adapting himself to a new, extended nightmare of a world he hadn’t _fully_ believed was real, until his directionless wandering had brought him to Goodneighbor. To _John_.

 

(About a year after fleeing his Vault and mere days after returning from his five month-stint as the Prodigal Vaultie, Nate had clung to John tight and hard in their bed, one night. John had just spent several hours cuddling, kissing, and _existing_ with Nate. Resisting all of Nate’s many and effective ways of encouraging and goading John to fuck him to incoherence and even unconsciousness.

 

Finally, Nate had gasped, as if fighting back sobs, then shook and shuddered as John silently held him even tighter.

 

Nate had eventually mumbled, sniffled, and _wept_ his way through telling John: “I don’t think I even really woke up until I came back home to you, last week. Or at least . . . that’s when the non-stop nightmare-insanity _finally ended_ , and this world became . . . _real_. Started to feel like I had a place and a part in it . . . _belonged_ to it. And like _some_ of the _good bits_ maybe belonged to _me_ , too.”

 

His voice had sounded like a man trying to say his last words as he’d drowned, and John had held on even tighter. As tight as he could without suffocating Nate—who, normally, liked being suffocated as much, if not more, than the next stone-freak. _Loved_ when John exerted himself to control even when, and how much and how many breaths he drew.

 

“I dunno how _good_ I am, brother,” John had replied gently, “but you can damn-sure count on me _belongin’ to you_. Always, love, and never not happy to. _Always_.”

 

Nate had been laying half-sprawled on John, heavy and tense, left leg and left arm thrown over John like a pleasantly solid and immovable ghoul-weight. His hot face had been resting over John’s slow-beating heart, and when he’d shifted enough to look up at John, his eyes had been red, wet, and swollen. More vulnerable than any John had ever seen, and more beautiful. Despite John lovingly brushing away tears with his thumb, Nate hadn’t even seemed to really notice his own weeping until—at John’s tender smile—he’d collapsed in John’s arms, unable to stop sobbing.)

 

And now, after so much time spent trying to fix some of the damage that losing his family and world had done—after so much time spent just trying to reckon with the broken-bleak aftermath of those things, and figure out who he now is _in relation_ to that aftermath and the War’s and world’s aftermath—Nate’s finally ready to revisit the shitshow of horror that’d marked the end of his old life.

 

To pay that old life final homages and respects . . . then say good bye. _Good bye_ to all he’d lost, then finally turn his eyes and heart, for keeps, toward all he does and will have.

 

John’s never loved or been so damn proud of anybody else in his entire life.

 

They continue toward Concord, hands eventually let-go for keeping arms ready. Nate divides his steely-grim gaze between the road and environs, and his Pip-boy.

 

By the time Concord—still and seemingly deserted—hoves into view, Nate’s hackles are clearly up, and his expression is one of worry, regret, and wariness. By the time they reach the outskirts . . . that expression’s blanked-out to Nate’s dead-cold, merciless murder-face.

 

Even John is scowling, tense, and fighting the urge to back right the fuck out the way they came, and detour around their detour.

 

 _This wasn’t my best idea, brother_ , John’s about to understate, when shouting starts in the not-distant-enough distance, followed by the fire of laser muskets and pipe-guns.

 

John and Nate glance at each other. Then Nate nods toward the sounds of trouble and there’s a question in that nod. His dark-bright eyes are manic and intense. Keen and _eager_.

 

Shrugging, John nods his agreement, and starts for the nearest building. He means to flank the conflagration, make his way closer, and pick off trouble from varying bits of cover before that trouble can get a leg up on his Vaultie. But before he can lope off toward this sacred duty, Nate grabs him, hauls him close, and kisses him hard.

 

That kiss, those arms— _Nate’s entire body_ is a plea for John to be safe and not take crazy risks. Like the ones _Nate_ will shortly, and always ever after, be taking.

 

John ends the kiss with a wry chuckle, then murmurs on Nate’s lips and on the back of a shaking, anxious breath: “Mercy ain’t a luxury you can afford now, brother. It’s _not a fucking option_ , anymore. You kill _whoever and whatever_ it takes to come back to me whole and alive. _Capisce_?”

 

Nate nods again: fervently and obediently. “Yes. _Capisce_ , Johnny.”

 

Then, that promise made—and for whatever it’s even worth—Nate’s taking off on the direct-route toward the sounds of intensifying gunfire. He’s ridiculously fast and eerily silent as he goes: dangerous and graceful as a panther, and agile and darting as any python. His self-modified, semi-automatic pistols are ready in his talented, precise hands.

 

John probably admires and watches Nate go for far longer than he should, pining like a lovelorn teenager while standing out in the open and the bright-ass, goddamn sun. But he recalls himself to the moment and the danger—the danger to _Nate_ if John fails to have his back in whatever way is most needed—and takes his own safer, more circuitous route toward the dust-up.

 

As he goes, he holsters his shotgun, then quickly and efficiently readies his Nate-and-Kleo-modified sniper rifle.

 

 

#

 

 

 

Taking down the baddies—the Raiders are beseiging someone or someones, likely some unlucky Drifters or even settlers, trapped in the very museum John’d wanted so badly to see just a couple hours prior—ain’t the easiest thing ever.

 

There’s a _bunch_ of the assholes. Even picking them off from cover—while Nate draws their attention and fire, and puts holes in anything that moves—requires constant motion and near-perfect aim.

 

But, like Ryan McDonough before him—and Martha McDonough before them _both_ —the only thing truer than John’s aim is his love for the man he’ll always do his damnedest to protect.

 

Once the Raiders outside are all down, Nate does a quick recon of the area, putting finishing bullets in the skulls of whomever’s still twitching. Shortly, one of the folks trapped inside—maybe he’s with the Commonwealth Minutemen . . . he’s got the uniform and hat for it, anyway—pops up from cover, leaning a bit over the railing of the museum’s front-facing balcony. He’s even put aside whatever firearm he’d been using to (barely) fend off the Raiders.

 

“There’re more in here and they’re _nearly through our last defenses_!” he shouts as John approaches Nate, who’s now coolly assessing the Minuteman. He sounds young and, even from a distance, looks it—looks far too boyish to be defending the defenseless from the heartless ways of the world. In the background of his pleas, muffled gunfire can be heard and the Minuteman points at something on the ground between John’s right foot and the left side of a nearby corpse that’s also in Minutemen garb. “I’ve got what’s left of a group of settlers inside and those Raiders won’t stop till we’re all dead! _Please_ . . . grab that laser musket and _help us_!”

 

John can feel Nate’s determination snap into place like a steel-trap or a force-field. He doesn’t even have to look over at his Vaultie to know they’re going in to handle the rest of the Raiders and, if this isn’t all some elaborate trap, rescue the settlers.

 

When Nate retrieves and hefts the laser musket, charges it, then stalks up the wide steps leading into the Museum of Freedom, John Hancock—once more wielding his trusty shotgun—has his back.

 

#

 

 

Once he and Nate have fought their way to the cornered settlers and their Minuteman defender, John’s impression of said defender’s apparent youth is confirmed. He gets the strong feeling he has boots older than this Minuteman. But since he’d fended off a townful of Raiders for however long it’s been, his age, or lack thereof isn’t exactly hampering him. So, neither is it off-putting to John.

 

“I’m Preston Garvey, of the Commonwealth Minutemen. And I dunno who you two are,” he adds as they step over a final Raider corpse and into the small office in which the settlers are holed-up. Garvey’s smile is a solemn, pained grimace, and his dark, dark eyes are haunted and exhausted. But his laser musket is still primed, though for the moment it’s pointing at the floor. “But your timing is impeccable.”

 

“Redcastle,” Nate says, not yet offering his hand. John’s noticed that’s something folks have to earn with his Vaultie. And it appears that Minuteman Garvey’s not quite there, yet. He also doesn’t seem interested in offering his own hand, so far.

 

“I’m John, his hired muscle.” John smirks and shrugs and leaves it at that. Like he’d left the Hancock clothes behind in Goodneighbor—except for his trusty tricorne, still battered, still faded, still _lucky_ , and still perched on his hairless head. Otherwise, he’s keeping to the sturdy, nondescript Drifter-gear he’d worn through his twenties and almost half his thirties. However, it isn’t unlikely that his infamy has preceded him in certain circles. A ghoul wearing a tricorne and calling himself “John” might be a dead-giveaway if Garvey cares enough to let that dog hunt.

 

But, then again, it might _not_. And until it does, John supposes it doesn’t matter.

 

“Glad to meet you, Redcastle. And you, John.” Garvey nods politely.

 

“And I’m glad to put murdering assholes in the dirt, whenever possible.” Nate shrugs, too. John glances to his right at bit of choppy motion. A short-ish, powerfully-built guy in overalls and a sweaty-dirty t-shirt is fiddling with a pile of hardware and an ancient terminal, all crowded onto a rickety desk. The guy’s face is mostly turned toward the terminal as he bends and hunches over the desk even more, muttering blistering profanity and desperate encouragements.

 

John takes a moment to admire the man’s physique, which isn’t as gorgeous as Nate’s, but still deserves a solid A for an impressive attempt.

 

“If that’s true, we could sure use some more of that good will, Redcastle. Obviously, we’re in a bit of a mess,” Garvey says dryly. John reins in his admiring gaze and aims it at the Minuteman, who looks even more tired than he had just a minute ago. Then, John turns his eyes to where they _always_ want to be most, no matter what.

 

“I’m listening. Tell me what happened,” Nate promises and commands, stern, but still empathetic, somehow. “Tell me what you need to _make happen_ next, and how you need me to help.”

 

Garvey seems to relax some at that directive, once his initial surprise and wary relief pass. To John’s right, tech-support with the burgeoning-on-jacked body mutters: “ _Goddamnit, now_. . . c’mon, y’all,” and keeps tinkering with whatever-it-is.

 

“That’s kind of you, both. And brave. As to what happened here and _before_ here . . . it was a _lot_. Suffice it to say, a month ago, there were twenty of us. Yesterday, there were eight. Now, we’re down to the five you see here,” Garvey confesses quietly, his voice tense and grieving under his strained veneer of calm. Behind him and to his right, a chemmed-up granny is sitting in a chair, out of the way and staring vapidly into space, in Nate’s direction. Beyond _her_ , two other people, a woman and a man who look to be not much older than Garvey, prowl and mutter in extreme agitation, and sit huddled against an overturned desk rocking and weeping, respectively.

 

The woman makes brief, angry-hurt eye-contact with John, then turns her glare away, along with the rest of her. The man doesn’t even seem to notice he and his comrades aren’t under fire any longer, let alone that they have some company. His gaze is red, shell-shocked, and devastated.

 

“After trouble in a few places we’d hoped might be safe, we wound up in Concord. And you see how that’s going. But . . . we have an idea that might at least buy us the time we need to get out of town alive. _Sturges_ —” he glances over at the burgeoning-on-jacked techie, who swears absently, then straightens, turning to face the three of them with a tense frown.

 

He’s interesting-looking and attractive in a way that’s edged firmly toward _handsome_ by a sudden, quirky-charming-ironic smile. Above that smiling mug—which is dominated by a merry, magnetic gaze the cool brown-gray of an old tree-trunk—towers a neat, tall, rockabilly-style pompadour. It’s a couple shades lighter than Sturges’s eyes and as perfect-proud as a crown.

 

Sturges nods at Hancock pleasantly enough, then at Nate . . . then does a double-take and almost frowns again, before his eyes skitter resolutely on, to Garvey. Sturges’s not-quite-frown becomes a smile again, teasing, but unequivocally adoring. He leans back against the desk and his tense shoulders relax. “You rang, _jeffe_?”

 

Garvey sighs, but his lips twitch a _whole lot_ , like he wants to smile. Or to maybe do something _else_ with his lips, had he and Sturges privacy enough, and time. The look that passes between them is lingering, smoldering, and so thick and tangible, John could riddle it with bullet holes.

 

A glance at Nate shows the other man rolling his eyes in aggrieved exasperation, but not an ounce of irony. John chuckles.

 

Garvey clears his throat a moment later then attempts to sound gruff and businesslike when he says: “Ahh. Tell ‘em the grand plan, Sturges, since it’s, ah, _your_ baby, after all. Please and thank you.”

 

Sturges’s grin widens, deepens, and gets just a wee bit insouciant. “ _The plan_ ain’t my baby, Preston Garvey, an’ you know that. _Anyway_.” Sturges turns his gaze and attention to John then Nate, where it settles again, a little cautiously, before Sturges shrugs and goes on. His lazy Capitol Wasteland-drawl puts John wistfully in mind of his mama’s, though hers had been thicker, faster, and not at all _lazy_. “There’s a crashed vertibird up on the roof of this pile of kindlin’, corpses, and ‘Murrica. Old school, pre-War tech in close-to-mint condition, considerin’.”

 

Nate grunts his acknowledgement, though at which part of Sturges’s chinning, John can’t tell.

 

“One of its former passengers—ARR-EYE-PEE, we hardly knew ye—left behind a _seriously sweet_ , full suit of T-45, military issue power armor. Fuckin’ _cherry_ , my friend. The _realest_ shit.”

 

John can feel the instant piquing of Nate’s interest like a flush of heat along his left side. “That’s . . . some no-nonsense protection, Mr. Sturges. If you can get it,” Nate notes, mild and almost indifferent-sounding. But despite that even tone, John can all-but feel the rush of Nate’s banked adrenaline start to spike again.

 

(John wouldn’t even be surprised if Nate were starting to get hard. It’s his typical and unapologetic response to acquired or potentially acquirable firepower or armor of impressive caliber.)

 

“Ain’t it just, Mr. Redcastle?” Sturges grins at Nate and winks at John. “But it gets even better, _amigos_. Grab the suit, and you can rip the _minigun_ right off the vertibird. Maybe give those Raider-dicks some spray-and-pray that includes express, one-way tickets to Hell, courtesy of the Commonwealth. Ya dig, killer?”

 

“I do, indeed, dig,” Nate allows, still mild and even. But his eyes narrow in a half-squint that John can’t read. Garvey, meanwhile, squares his shoulders, then sighs when Sturges takes that as his cue to get all up in Garvey’s space and under Garvey’s instantly welcoming arm. Sturges smirks smugly and slings _his_ arm around the Minuteman’s waist. But Garvey doesn’t once shift his heavy, ponderous gaze from Nate’s face.

 

“Think that’d be weapon and armor enough, and . . . payment enough for you to help us put down those maniacs, Redcastle?” he finally asks, all worn-out, but persistent hope. Nate’s smile is blandly amused and slightly sad.

 

“I’m not looking to get paid for being a decent person, Officer Garvey. _That_ , I’ll do, gratis. As for some good, old-world power armor and a vertibird minigun? I’ll happily take ’em, if no one else is going to and if I can use them to help out. In the hands of someone who knows what they’re doing, that armor and minigun’ll be enough to take down as many Raiders as this town can throw at us. _More_ than enough.”

 

Garvey’s brows lift just a tiny bit and his smile tics wider . . . just a tiny bit. “And . . . _are you_ such a someone?”

 

“I guess we’re about to find that out.” Nate’s cool, wry, but competent smile then gentles into something friendlier and more genuine. “Now, how do we get this ball rolling? Those Raiders aren’t gonna ghost themselves, after all.”

 

 

#

 

 

There’s a problem with Sturges’s power armor-plan because, _of course_ , there is.

 

Garvey lays out the problem quickly and succinctly, and with random interruptions by a clearly agitated Sturges.

 

The suit has been “outta juice for ’least a century,” the techie cuts-in to say, and almost as if the power armor had done that in advance and on-purpose just to spite him. Garvey’s brows lift and he smiles a little, his hand clenching on Sturges’s hip fondly before he resumes his economical mission-briefing.

 

The whole plan hinges on someone either picking the lock on a security gate in the basement of the museum—or hacking their way into the security gate’s computer. Beyond that gate lies the solution to the no juice-problem: a long-term, high-grade fusion core.

 

“I fix stuff and I tinker. Bypassin’ old-tech security protocols ain’t ‘xactly my forte, friends. Or so recent events have proven,” Sturges chips in yet again, but sounding apologetic and frustrated, this time. He looks down, shaking his pompadoured head. “If it was, I’da broke in to get that EFF-CEE as soon as we got here. Then _Pres_ woulda shown those Raiders why smart money’s _never_ on fuckin’ with the Minutemen. Well . . . not the fool-way _they chose to_ , anyhow.”

 

“Even a clever, quick, Jack-of-all-trades can’t do _everything_ , Wyatt,” Garvey says, soft, but with the sort of deep faith and loyalty John knows and has felt first-fucking-hand. Sturges glances up a bit, into Garvey’s warm eyes, and that lazy smile makes half a comeback. Followed by a blush and a chuckle.

 

“Ahh, shucks, Pres. But that’s why Jacks-of-all-trades are _also_ called _masters-of-none_ , _el cap-ih-tano_.” Sturges’ smile turns almost shy and he bounces up a bit to buss Garvey’s cheek. “But you’re _sweet as sugar_ to say otherwise. Keep that up, and you’ll max-out this ol’ boy’s affinity in _no time_.”

 

Garvey blushes, too. So hard, it shows up under that cinnamon-colored skin of his. Then he clears his throat and does his best to tame a smile that obviously wants to become a poleaxed grin.

 

“Anyway.” He clears his throat once more, and it’s another half-minute before he collects himself enough to pick up the briefing again. “If you can get past that gate, might be our luck’ll change for the better. When you jack the core into that power armor, take the minigun, and show those Raiders they picked the wrong-damn-fight.”

 

“Will do.” Nate nods once, but it gives the same impression as a crisp salute. Garvey nods back, then actually smiles, kind and tired and hopeful.

 

“Good luck, Redcastle. You, too, John. And thanks.”

 

Nate nods again, and John murmurs his thanks for the well-wishes. Sturges’s gaze ticks between them both and he, too, smiles. Then winks at Nate.

 

“You’ll do alright for yourself, buddy. Already are. Time sorts and smooths _all kindsa things_ right out. _Trust_ ,” he promises, and gives an actual salute of his own, jaunty and sardonic. Then he busses Garvey’s cheek again and turns back toward his stubborn terminal, cracking his knuckles and muttering: _A’right. Time to git you done, at last, asshole. Now, bend the fuck over. . . ._

 

John snorts and rolls his eyes. If none of these other settlers make it through alive, he sure hopes Sturges does, and with that personality intact.

 

Nate, meanwhile, is still blinking and almost gaping at the spot where Sturges _had_ been standing a few moments ago. Then he shuts his mouth into a determined, forbidding line and nudges John’s arm absently.

 

“Let’s move.”

 

#

 

 

The next problem is that nothing _immediately_ FUBARs in their faces.

 

In fact, everything goes according to Sturges’s “plan,” with John picking the gate lock like it’s nothing. They retrieve the fusion core and Nate successfully jacks it to the waiting power armor on the museum roof. Then, he starts thinning out newly-arrived, Raider-reinforcement ranks from the roof-ledge. In his new-to-him power armor and still firing the vertibird’s minigun, he soon leaps _off_ the roof and into the street, landing with a semi-distant pneumatic whoosh and a loud-dull thud.

 

He takes the rest of the fight right to the Raiders.

 

Garvey’s been laying down covering fire from the balcony, and John from near the front entrance of the museum, in case Nate needs up-close aid and cover-fire. And like Nate, John’s loaded for bear, thanks to looting all the dead Raiders he and Nate’d left on their way through the museum. In his hands, his modded-out sniper rifle is as warm as happiness. Warm enough for John to feel that heat even through the ever-present heat of his own irradiation.

 

A couple minutes after Nate takes it to the streets, the few Raiders left standing decide Concord isn’t worth their lives and start to clear out. Nate, thorough pragmatist that he is, quickly pursues them, meaning to leave no witnesses and take no prisoners.

 

Smirking fondly, John makes his wary way out to the cleared street. It isn’t long before he can no longer hear Nate’s power armor or the report of the minigun, anymore. He can’t hear the Raiders’ shouts and small-arms fire, either.

 

He’s halfway down the street from the Museum, ears trained on the silence ahead as he eyes the corpse of a fallen Raider. Rather, the small, brightly-glinting, but bloody key that’d likely fallen from said Raider’s blood-soaked, left pocket.

 

John’s just shoved that wiped-off key into his _right shirt_ pocket and buttoned it, when he hears the roar.

 

He _knows_ that roar—knows only one thing big enough and dangerous enough to be that goddamn brazen and gives-no-fucks noisy. And that _one thing’s_ roar is coming from the direction _Nate_ had clomped off in.

 

John’s shouldered the rifle and broken into a run before his brain even suggests it, putting all his energy and determination into reaching Nate, who had— _of course_ . . . the valiant idiot—given John his damned grenade belt “just in case.” Then had stolen a last kiss before climbing into the charged power armor with a tense, but optimistic smile.

 

“Aim well and throw true, John,” he’d advised as the armor’s helmet had descended and locked into place. John had rolled his eyes while buckling on the damn grenade belt.

 

“Go paint the town red, brother. Kill anything that moves,” he’d reminded firmly, but warmly. And Nate had done just that. John had expected no less and Nate, as always, hadn’t disappointed.

 

But _neither_ of them, had expected—could have _predicted_ —a damn _deathclaw_ haunting the dead streets of Concord.

 

His right hand hovering at Nate’s grenade belt, John sprints around the corner and toward the increasingly loud-angry roars—and minigun-fire. His heart soars briefly, but wildly at this proof that Nate’s alive and in relatively good condition. John doesn’t so much as hesitate upon that moment of relief, nor at spotting his power armored Vaultie ducking and _barely_ dodging the speedy, deadly swipes from the aptly-named, twenty-foot-tall mutant.

 

He instead puts on another burst of speed. All instincts for finding strategic cover, flanking the fight, then attacking from that cover with the element of surprise on his side are forgotten, as John shouts to draw the deathclaw’s attention from a cornered, but still-firing Nate.

 

It’s not exactly a job of work, making that attention-shift happen. And when the enraged deathclaw swings ‘round and starts to bear down on _him_ , John takes off back the way he’d come, zigzagging and meaning to lead it as far from Nate as he can, while freeing a grenade from the belt.

 

It’s a steaming _shit _of a “plan”—even Sturges’d probably laugh his head _and_ his ass off, upon hearing it—but it’s all he’s got. And if it gives Nate a better chance at surviving and killing that damn thing . . . then it’s good enough for John.__

 

But even the slowest deathclaw is still _dismayingly_ fast, considering its frightening height and bulk. _This one_ . . . is actually faster than most, as well as big enough to cover large amounts of ground when it moves. Even as John pops the pin off the grenade, lines of poison-fire and electric-acid streak down and across his back.

 

Shocked beyond even the acknowledgement of pain and injury, John isn’t afforded a stumble-and-fall. Instead, the force of the deathclaw’s swipe and follow-through sends him flying. The grenade falls from instantly nerveless fingers and the strap of the sniper rifle is torn from his now-shattered, useless shoulder.

 

His impromptu journey ends when he collides with something brittle and crumbling. Several numb moments later, dazed and disoriented, and unable to move, John hears a semi-distant explosion, a wounded-angry roar, and renewed minigun fire . . . then _laser musket_ fire, along with raging, broken-voiced taunts. The taunts and musket fire seem to come from such wildly varied directions and distances—and at such an increasing rate.

 

John _knows,_ even barely conscious and barely cogent, that it’s Nate. That Nate is going to save him—save them _both_. Or die trying.

 

John _also knows_ that Nate Redcastle is _fast_ , but _no one_ is _that fast_. At least not _naturally_. Not while wearing power armor and _not_ without some sort of chemical enhancement. . . .

 

Like the sort of chemical enhancement Nate had sworn off last year and vowed to never touch again at Dr. Amari’s behest. And for his own sake, as well as John’s.

 

Hallucinogens and downers, like Daytripper and Med-X, and even _relatively mild_ stimulants are fine. Mentats are still go for Nate, too, though unlike John, he’s largely indifferent to the high of those. _But in moderation and with carefully measured, precise dosing_ , he can handle infrequent dabbling in Mentats, according to Goodneighbor’s resident sawbones. And with the downers and hallucinogens, Nate can chem to his heart’s content. And occasionally, he does.

 

But speed and serious uppers of any kind, including After Burner gum and _any_ variations of Psycho (Nate had lived on almost _nothing_ but increasing doses of Psychobuff and Psychotats for his five month-absence) are out-of-bounds. After such frequent, heavy, and prolonged use, for so long a period . . . Psycho-laced _anything_ would probably kill Nate now. Even a moderate dose is far more likely to stop his heart at peak-high—or cause him to stroke-out—than not.

 

And Nate Redcastle never does _moderate-anything_.

 

Even with _carefully measured, precise dosing_ , the risk of death is still ridiculously, unacceptably high. And taking on a deathclaw doesn’t leave a lot of time for that sort of care and precision.

 

So, John’s Vaultie has just written his own death-warrant to save _John_ from his own similarly stupid plan of: _Make the hungry deathclaw chase_ me _, then get slaughtered-and-eaten to death_.

 

 _Sunshine, no . . . please, don’t!_ John’s entire soul cries out. His normally ghoul-slow heart practically trip-hammers as he opens his bleary-blurry eyes with immeasurable effort. His body automatically exerts itself to sit up—to _save Nate_. And even though his body doesn’t come close to doing either, the former shock and numbness obscuring the agony of John’s injuries is suddenly _gone._ The pain is right there, present and accounted for in every nerve-ending and every atom of him.

 

And it’s greater and keener than any pain John could have previously imagined. It is the _entirety_ of his memory, knowledge, and existence, and blots out even his deep-loyal-always love for Nate and Nate’s fierce-intense-endless love for _him_. It blots out . . . _everything_. . . .

 

Everything.

 

. . . for all of three seconds, before memory, knowledge, _and_ existence go lights-the-fuck- _out_ , for John Hancock.

 

And soon, maybe for _Nate Redcastle_ , too.

 

And maybe forever.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **END NOTE:** I’m adding these credits/sources to the Entire Work end notes, but thought I’d note that for this chapter, I’m using this [cutscene video](https://youtu.be/UT0cyTMHKVU) for dialogue, [this walkthrough of the ‘Out of Time’ and ‘When Freedom Calls’ quests](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q9S06HLLz1U) for dialogue and deets (which I’ve tweaked a LOT), as well as the [Nukapedia: Fallout Wiki](http://fallout.wikia.com/wiki/Fallout_Wiki), specifically the entries for ‘[Out of Time](http://fallout.wikia.com/wiki/Out_of_Time)’ and ‘[When Freedom Calls](http://fallout.wikia.com/wiki/When_Freedom_Calls),’ respectively.


	9. 7. INTERLUDE: STIMPAKS.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Interlude, in the key of Garvey. The aftermath of the Raiders and the deathclaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes/Warnings: Rearrangement of canon timeline events. Set just post-‘When Freedom Calls’ quest. SPOILERS. Mentions of canon characters and events. Mentions of violence, and severe injury to a major character. Allusion to past murderous rampages. Implied/semi-stated suicidal ideation. Threats of violence and murder. Preston Garvey POV.

Blinking against the intense bleed of a fierce, blood-orange sunset—his laser musket at the ready—Preston Garvey takes a deep breath that tastes of scorched ozone and gunpowder, a dry-dusty fall and the miasmic, rancid-high reek of any large reptile.

 

Shaking his head at himself, and at his determination to lead not just himself but _Wyatt_ into whatever danger may still lie ahead, he rounds the corner from beyond which had come the last of the gunshots, incendiary munitions, and chuffing roars.

 

The first thing that greets him, from the distance of nearly two streets away, is a _huge_ and thankfully dead— _very, very_ dead—deathclaw. All three pieces of it glint a baleful, but shifting-indeterminate color in the fiery, orange light.

 

Relieved about the neutralized deathclaw, at least, he’s most of the way down the street, and still moving carefully toward the fallen mutant, before he notices Redcastle.

 

And . . . John.

 

Sitting slumped near his empty power armor—and unevenly triangulated between a dented and blood-spattered wooden barricade, the remains of the slain deathclaw, and Preston—Redcastle holds John’s shattered, still body in his lap. He’s clutching at . . . _cradling_ the corpse close and gentle, and frantically rocking it while staring off into space with wide, shell-shocked eyes. He’s muttering something, but Preston isn’t close enough to hear it. He doubts he’d know what was being said even if he were. But he’s close, enough to be instantly uneasy at the lost, unmoored quality of Redcastle’s gaze: glittering-dark, abyssal holes in his dusty face and the sunset-tinted world.

 

Preston slows, sighs, and stops, the dryness parching his mouth staking claim in the top of his throat. Wyatt, close on his heels and jumpy, bumps into his back with an annoyed grunt. Then a gasp as he looks around Preston to see what the hold-up is.

 

“ _Sweeeeeet, screamin’ Jay-HOSUH-fat_ ,” he exhales, his hand landing on Preston’s back for a few moments. Preston nods and starts moving again, his approach steady, but slow, so as not to startle.

 

And anyway, _haste_ of any kind feels rather sacrilegious right now . . . as does any unnecessary motion. But he keeps moving forward, nonetheless.

 

“Redcastle. . . .” he ventures from a ticking throat and desert-mouth. He’s just close enough to make out the dust and dirt on Redcastle’s face, and the washed-cleaner tracks all down his cheeks. In the red-tinged, orange sunset, the man’s still-falling tears look almost like blood.

 

At his reluctant, but projected hail, Redcastle shudders, but doesn’t look Preston’s way. But he does rock John’s corpse faster and harder. Said corpse’s muted, Drifter-style clothes—especially down the front of his tough-but-worn flak-jacket—are tacky with deep, arterial red.

 

“Johnny’s dead.” Redcastle shakes his head, slow and almost mechanical. Then he _smiles_ , and . . . it’s _awful_. Unhinged and horrified and teetering on the kind of madness few would find their way back out of. “He’s dead, because I tried to be good, like _he was_. To help people, even though I _knew_ he’d follow me into danger. Even though I knew he could be _hurt_. And he was. And he’s _dead now_. Because I tried to be good—to be a _hero_. To . . . help. It’s _my_ fault. _All_ my fault. I couldn’t _keep_ him safe and I couldn’t _save_ him. I never can. . . .”

 

He trails off, staring into the distance, past the deathclaw. Past Concord. Past the merciless sunset. Past everyplace _anyone’d_ ever hope to see.

 

Into someplace hopefully _few_ ever will.

 

Wyatt is still close, half-behind Preston now, with his left hand on Preston’s right shoulder. He leans out from behind Preston’s blocking body and watches Redcastle intently. Preston’s hackles immediately get ideas about perking up. He wants nothing more than to block Wyatt from Redcastle’s sight, knowledge, and memory, and can’t explain the instinct to himself.

 

He still has to fight not to heed it and winning doesn’t feel like a victory.

 

“I’m sorry, Redcastle,” Preston offers only just loud enough to carry. Now doesn’t seem like the time for a “thank you,” even though he’d mean that thanks with his entire heart and soul.

 

Redcastle shudders, closes his eyes, then rocks John’s body even faster. That happens for an eerie, uncomfortable minute, during which Wyatt cleaves close again. When Redcastle stops rocking suddenly, his eyes fluttering open, Preston shivers at their emptiness—no, at the beyond-empty, _devouring_ quality of it.

 

That gaze isn’t a void, it’s a black hole.

 

Preston averts his eyes and his entire body shudders, like that of a man who’d narrowly avoided disaster. His arms, rock-steady, are already bringing up his charged and ready laser musket just in case: because he _always_ listens to his instincts this soon after a desperate firefight. And if this shakes out so that they _do_ , this _wouldn’t_ be the _first_ time those instincts have saved his life.

 

Redcastle’s dark, eerie gaze shifts palpably—ticks to Preston’s laser musket, which is now aimed at the ground halfway between where Preston stands and Redcastle sits. That gruesome, disquieting smile widens and Redcastle’s gaze drifts calmly to Preston’s face again.

 

“Yeah,” he says, and nods once. Then Preston can see smile and gaze falter from the corner of his eyes. Redcastle hangs his head and holds John’s body even closer. Risking a glance at the man now that his focus is on the corpse he’s clutching, Preston raises his musket a little more. More tears roll down Redcastle’s face and his body’s shaking like a lonely leaf in autumn. “Do it, Garvey. It’d be the best thing for everyone. There’s nothing left, no reasons for me to not . . . anything. Anything at all. So, do it. I can promise you . . . I do horrible things when nothing matters, anymore.”

 

Before Preston can respond, Wyatt steps around him, radiating nothing like fear . . . only mute heartache and deep compassion.

 

Deep _empathy_.

 

“Listen, Redcastle. . . .” he begins, quiet and kind.

 

“I’m done listening. All the moments hurt, now.” Shaking his head again, Redcastle looks up. His dead gaze jitters as it travels, until it settles on Wyatt, and he frowns. Then that gaze narrows, sharpens, and clears. It brightens and hardens, like that of a man who suddenly has a lever big enough to move the world.

 

When next he speaks, his tone is quiet and cold and not at all aimed at Wyatt. “You don’t know how much it hurts, Garvey. How quickly the few bits that are _good_ , or that _want_ to be good just . . . get drowned out. Mowed down. Just . . . _vanish_. When _everything_ hurts, _nothing matters anymore_ . . . but drowning out the hurt with whatever it takes. Whatever. Forgetting the loss for as long as possible. You’ve probably _guessed_ some of that—you’re a soldier. You’ve probably _seen_ it. But _you don’t know it._ Yet. And if you don’t _want_ to know it firsthand,” he adds, soft and sad and glancing directly at Preston, once more. “If you don’t want me to show you how it is on the _inside_ . . . you’d better use that musket before I find my legs.”

 

Preston shudders and has the laser musket raised before his brain has fully processed that Redcastle’s threatening not just _him_ . . . but _Wyatt_.

 

 _Most importantly_ . . . Wyatt.

 

“Damnit, _no_ , Preston!” Wyatt hisses, pushing on the laser musket, then on Preston’s arm—then moving _between_ Preston and his bead on Redcastle. Wyatt’s expression is strained and grief-stricken, his face pale and tired. Even though Preston isn’t sure how old Wyatt actually is, in this moment, he still looks a boyish thirty, or so. But his _eyes_ —reddened, guilty, and _haunted_ —are far older. “Have you gone fuckin’ _batshit_?”

 

“ _Batshit_ , would be not believing someone when they tell you _exactly_ who they are and who they’re trying to be, Wyatt,” Preston says, frowning and shrugging. “Get out of the way, before he tries something. Let me end it the easy way, before _he_ ends it some other way.”

 

“ _No_ ,” Wyatt says again, sharp and loud, shaking his head and standing his ground between two soldiers backed into similar corners—one holding a devastating weapon, and one who _is_ a devastating weapon.

 

And even with Redcastle nominally unarmed and not reaching for anything or obviously about to charge at them—yet—Preston still feels barely armed in comparison. And every second that ticks by makes his hackles rise and that instinct scream that he and Wyatt would be safer going up against a live deathclaw—like the one Redcastle _just brought down while sustaining no injuries_ . . . which is an _incredible_ feat for just _one_ power armored man, and Preston will _never_ forget such a salient fact—than attempting to reason with and talk-down someone who clearly doesn’t want to be either.

 

Preston meets Wyatt’s frantic, pleading gaze and holds it, the way he wants to hold _Wyatt_ , and protect him from any and all dangers. _Especially_ ones posed by heroes who’ve lost all reason and conscience, and incentive for _being_ a hero. For whom the only heroism, altruism, and goodness left, is to commit suicide-by-Minuteman.

 

He sighs and leans closer to Wyatt, who smells, as ever lately, of sweat, whatever product he uses to keep that pompadour from wilting—and apparently never runs out of—and fried wires. That scent has come to epitomize every good thing in Preston Garvey’s world. “He means every word he’s said, Wyatt. If killing _you_ is what it takes to get me to kill him . . . he’ll do it. You _heard_ him.”

 

“Yeah, I did. I heard what he said, and I hear what he’s _sayin’_.” Wyatt’s round, brown eyes—even sans their usual merriment and flirty sparkle—still seem to glow. Only now, they glow with something Preston can’t identify, but for the grim realization it strikes in his soul. But for the _fear_ that he recognizes as being perpetual, when a man loves someone who thinks _love_ can save _everyone_ . . . and who lives the courage of that conviction accordingly. “And I _know_ there’s a difference between a bad man and a _mad_ one.”

 

Preston glances at Redcastle, quick and suspicious. The man’s staring into space again, muttering and grinning. Repressing a shudder, Preston shifts precisely half his focus back to Wyatt. The other half stays sharply attuned to Redcastle. “Maybe he’s both!”

 

“Maybe he’s _neither. Maybe_ he’s more _sad_ ’n anything else. But I _won’t_ let you put him down before we sort that out.” Wyatt’s face isn’t pleading, now, but stony and stubborn, and . . . Preston’s heart just kind of trips on its own feet and stumbles to its knees.

 

It’s an alarming state, all-told, and one he’s never before experienced—never knew it even existed, let alone that he would ever be prey to it.

 

But now, it’s his heart’s status quo when around Wyatt Sturges—or when even just thinking about him—since not long after escaping Quincy.

 

“He wants to _kill you_. And you want me to _let_ him?” he demands, more rhetorical than sincere, since there’s absolutely no way he’s _not_ turning Redcastle into a spray of persistent gore on Concord’s landscape, should the man make even one false twitch. Despite his _apparent_ distraction and dissociation, Redcastle doubtlessly knows that. Is hearing and tracking their every word and motion. _Waiting_ . . . waiting. “That won’t be happening.”

 

Wyatt’s smile is small and affectionate and . . . there goes Preston’s heart again: felled by the exponentially increasing depth of his feelings for Wyatt . . . and determined—dedicated—to preserve the man responsible for them. Responsible for giving Preston the greatest gift of his life, so far.

 

“Well, naw, hon. I know it won’t happen. I don’t _want_ it to happen, at all,” Wyatt murmurs, shaking his head and smiling with disarming tenderness. “And _he_ don’t _wanna_ kill me. He’s just _prepared_ to, because he dunno what else to do.”

 

Preston sighs in exasperation, feeling as if he’s trying to reason with an alien. “I reiterate: _You want me to let him_?” His eyebrows are getting really tired from being shot-right-up to the crown of his hat.

 

“I _want_ you to let me try and find him a _reason_ —it’d only take one. Believe me . . . I been where he is, sugarpie, and I _know_ that _even one reason_ could be enough, if it was a decent one.”

 

Confused and _acutely_ aware of the leaden-light _weight_ of the madness burning and freezing away Redcastle’s tenuous sanity—Preston keenly feels the closing of the only window any of them might get to _stop_ such an impossible, _un_ stoppable killing-machine before all its few restraints are utterly gone. That brief opportunity to _act_ is ticking by ever-faster, like the tortuous-cruel countdown of a timebomb.

 

But then, Preston concedes, torn and anxious, he hasn’t gotten this far beyond Quincy by _not_ listening to and trusting Wyatt Sturges.

 

“One reason? _To what_?” he hisses, and Wyatt’s smile becomes a grin. Though it seems anxious and scared in a way Preston can’t read. In the periphery of his vision, Redcastle’s rocking John’s body once more, with jerky, stuttered, and staggered motions.

 

“To keep _bein’ human_. That ain’t _ever_ an easy thing to do, but it’s always a _necessary_ thing. And a little motivation when it counts most . . . a little _inspiration_ can go a _fuck_ of a long way, babycakes.”

 

Wyatt darts in and pecks Preston’s lips, quick and light. Then again, _less_ quick and light, until Preston’s lowered the laser musket once more. Then he moans when Preston frees one hand from the musket’s warm-ready stock, to settle it on Wyatt’s warm-ready _body_ : at the damp small of his t-shirt-and-overalls covered back, then splaying with longing and restraint across the curve of his ass.

 

“ _Damn_ ,” Wyatt pants, breaking their kiss regretfully, but nuzzling Preston’s nose and chuckling. That chuckle shakes and breaks like Wyatt’s whole body is an earthquake. “The _moment_ we get someplace safe and defensible, Pres. . . .”

 

“Yeah,” Preston agrees, frustrated and regretful, then laughs. _Then_ . . . he holds Wyatt tighter as his focus shifts back to the moment they’re in, not the moment they’ve been waiting so long for. He holds on _desperate_ -tight, for a few seconds. Even with the Raiders and the deathclaw dead, the odds of them surviving the next few days on the road are slim. Their odds of surviving _Redcastle’s grief_ are slimmer, still. Nevertheless. . . . “Please don’t ask me to let him hurt you, Wyatt.” _Or let him kill you_.

 

“I’d _never_ ask that. But I can’t _not_ try to help—can’t not _be human_ when it matters more than ever. _Redcastle_ did that for _us_ —helped us—and now . . . someone oughtta do it for _him_.” Wyatt’s calloused-grubby, reverent-gentle fingertips brush cool and light along Preston’s stubbly jaw. The touch makes him shiver and notice his inappropriately half-hard state. The sweetness and affection of it make his knees nearly buckle. “I reckon that someone could be _me_. I may not be the _only_ one who _could_ , but I’m the one who’s _here_.”

 

Redcastle’s rocking has slowed and almost evened out—has become more involuntary motion than necessary comfort. Preston knows that time is ticking by, ticking down faster. The less comfort Redcastle is capable of feeling or taking, the more unstoppable he’ll be.

 

Preston growls and tightens his arm around Wyatt’s waist again, leaning in until his forehead touches Wyatt’s.

 

“Why do you care so much about redeeming him? He clearly doesn’t want to be—which makes your success _very unlikely_. And not worth it to risk your _life!_ ” he stresses as Wyatt pulls away and starts to _turn_ away. Toward Redcastle, whose rocking of John’s corpse has slowed to swaying. But he’s still staring into the sunset, almost as if he’s never seen one. He looks utterly detached and rudder-less, from eyes to body to being, but Preston knows that how Redcastle _looks_ , in terms of the danger he _poses_ , doesn’t mean much. Looks are frequently deceiving, and _soldiers_ know that better than anyone—know how to use misassumption _to effect_ , better than anyone. “Why are you . . . what was _your_ reason and who gave it to you?”

 

Wyatt’s brows lift, and he smirks as he gives Preston some unsubtle elevator-eyes and a stagey wink. “Two questions with the same answer? Aww, Pres. You _do_ like to toss me softballs, don’tcha, _cap-ih-tano_?”

 

Then, after another quick peck, this time to Preston’s chin, Wyatt’s strolling over to Redcastle with his hands held up peaceably. Redcastle stills and reins in his focus to watch Wyatt’s approach with hawkish-keen, but markedly confused eyes.

 

“Hey, there, _‘migo_. Well . . . this all kinda went to shit on ya. And _for_ ya. I’m sorry ‘bout that,” Wyatt says, clear and carrying, but not loud. Preston shifts to keep Redcastle in view and sees the man’s full— _awful, empty, heavy_ —focus is entirely on Wyatt’s face. Which is . . . terrifying. Letting Wyatt walk into Redcastle’s bubble of grief, madness, and danger, armed only with his hope and faith and optimism, feels like the _scariest_ thing Preston will ever do. It is _absolutely terrifying_. “Y’all remember _me_ , right, pard?”

 

Redcastle’s face twitches all over and his eyes narrow to a still-blank squint. It’s a half-hearted attempt at recall that doesn’t quite get off the ground.

 

“I . . . maybe,” he finally says, his broad shoulders slumping after a laborious shrug. More tears leak from his downcast eyes. “Doesn’t matter. _Nothing_ matters, anymore.”

 

“Yeeeah, I get that. So help me, I do, friend. It’s a _valid_ feelin’ and conclusion, all things considered. Thing is, though. . . .” Wyatt’s within easy lunging distance. Or would be, if it weren’t so clear now, that Redcastle would _never_ give _John’s_ corpse such short, disrespectful shrift . . . would never _desecrate_ it by using it either as springboard, distraction, or shield.

 

Hell, he’s _still_ cradling it tenderly and reverently—as careful and gentle as if it’s a live newborn.

 

So help _him_ , Preston hopes Wyatt is right—can _keep being right_ , and that Redcastle doesn’t try something dangerous. There are few looming necessities Preston dreads as much as he suddenly _dreads_ maybe having to kill the broken hero before them. The one who hasn’t _yet_ stopped weeping or clutching his dead lover’s corpse like there might _still_ be hope of saving John. Or of bringing him back, with enough want and love and _suffering_.

 

(Redcastle seems like he’s extremely deft at _all three_ , but especially that last one.)

 

In this moment, as much as he doesn’t want to have to kill Redcastle, Preston is utterly, perfectly certain that if he has to, he _will_. If it means keeping Wyatt and what _they_ could have alive and _safe_ —if it means preventing the yawning chasm staring out of Redcastle’s dead eyes from finding a permanent, dangerous home behind _his own_ —Preston will turn _a million_ Redcastles into so much bloody spatter. And each one right over the corpses of their lost lovers, too.

 

“The thing is . . . you’re wrong, Nathan. Your feelin’s are _so valid_. So _human_. And they make _every-damn-bit_ of sense, in light of your experiences and memories . . . but _feelin’s_ , powerful as they are, ain’t always _facts_ ,” Wyatt says, stopping a mere few feet from Redcastle, who shudders and takes a shallow, trembling breath. Then he laughs, small, pathetic, and creepy.

 

“Don’t talk to me about facts,” he says. His voice is quiet and even, and so frighteningly _calm_. Preston raises his laser musket again. But of course, Wyatt, in pursuit of Redcastle’s redemption arc, manages to block his aim, again.

 

Swearing under his breath, Preston shifts _slowly_ to his left some more. Redcastle probably hasn’t forgotten his presence, but Preston doesn’t want to recall his direct attention to that presence, either.

 

“Alright, then. How ‘bout I talk to you ‘bout some other stuff?” Wyatt asks, inching closer, until he’s less than two feet from Redcastle. He slowly drops into a squat, then a one-knee-kneel, so he and Redcastle are eye-to-eye. Redcastle still looks over-alert and crazy, still blank and lost . . . but almost _pleading_ , too. Both assessments are born-out by his next words:

 

“I . . . don’t _want_ to kill you.” Though Redcastle hardly _sounds_ confident about that. “But I probably will. I might not want to or _mean_ to, but . . . that doesn’t matter anymore, either.”

 

“I know it doesn’t, buddy. But _thank you_ for holdin’ off on that and for listenin’ so far. I ‘ppreciate you. . . .” Wyatt leans back just a bit when Redcastle starts shuddering violently at that sincere statement of gratitude. But then, he leans _in_ again, unafraid and genuinely concerned. “Hey, now . . . easy, there. . . .” 

 

Redcastle shakes his head jerkily, in response, then chuckles. It, too, is weary, eerie, and sad.

 

“I’ll be sorry—I _am_ sorry. But that doesn’t matter and won’t save you.” He licks his lips nervously and shrugs. “It’s what I do. What I did last time. And the time before that . . . became a monster and _killed_ them all. And the worst part—” he swallows and licks his lips again. His Adam’s apple bobs restlessly. “The _worst_ part wasn’t that I couldn’t stop myself. It was that even if I _could have_ . . . I _wouldn’t_ have. I’m _wrong_ , like that. Always have been. But as long as I had people who mattered, even just one . . . I could _fight_ all the wrong parts. And _win_.” His gaze drifts to the deathclaw and he absently bares his teeth in a pitiful snarl, before looking down at John. “Winning doesn’t matter, now. Everyone’s gone.”

 

“Maybe they are. And maybe nothin’ _does_ matter. Or at least, it don’t in the way _you’re_ used to thinkin’ it should, soldier,” Wyatt corrects himself. But then, his accent softens, just as his voice hardens—goes grim and steely. Redcastle looks up, reluctantly and more confused. Questioning, too. Wyatt’s shoulders are tense but square and strong. “There’re people out here, in this world—and maybe _were_ , back in that _old world_ that got took from ya—who’da wanted nothin’ more than to see you just like this: _broken and done_. To see you turned into worse than a villain or even a monster . . . turned into a _rabid, pitiable beast_. One that kills indiscriminately because the only thing that feels _worse_ than killin’, is . . . every- _damn_ -thing-else.

 

“There _were and are_ people like that, struttin’ around on this Earth, not gonna lie. They’d feel pretty fuckin’ smug, if they could see you just now. You . . . and poor John, here. They’d be _happy_ , because you’re in misery, and . . . _I think_ you already know that. _And_ . . . I think that makes you angry as _fuck_.” When Redcastle tilts his head in consideration, then nods once, more than a minute later, Wyatt nods back. “Right on. It _should_ make you angry. _It should_.”

 

“I don’t wanna hurt people that didn’t earn it. But I will. I did _before_ , and I will _again_. I’m _built wrong_. There’s no fixing me—and no controlling me, now. Only ending me.” Redcastle glances at the dead deathclaw, again. “Sometimes, you can’t save monsters. And you can’t just leave them to rampage and destroy and spread the misery they’re made of. Sometimes, you just have to _put them down_ and let that be that.” He shrugs and slumps yet again. For a few moments, anyway, then wearily straightens. “It’s what’s kindest and safest for everyone.”

 

“Maybe, it is. But maybe what’s _kindest and safest_ ain’t always what’s _best_. Or what’s right. _Maybe_. . . maybe feelin’s— _your feelin’s_ — _ain’t facts,_ Nathan. And maybe they ain’t even _truths_ , neither.” Wyatt knee-walks a little closer to Redcastle. “You wanna know a feelin’ that _is_ a fact? And a _truth_? Then ask yourself what _John_ would want you to do, right now. He gave his life to save you . . . he might not have expected a return on that investment, but do you think he’d want to know that after givin’ his life for you, you went and became some pathetic slaughter-beast, or fell prey to Preston’s laser musket?”

 

Preston rolls his eyes and sighs silently, as Redcastle’s gaze flicks briefly to him, suddenly avid and considering. _Calculating_.

 

“Whatever John _used to_ want, he doesn’t want _anything_ , now. He’s _dead_. He was _good,_ and I was good _for him and because of him._ Because it was what he wanted and _deserved_. _And now he’s dead_.” Redcastle’s voice, formerly calm and even has grown increasingly tense and angry and brittle as he speaks. By the time he finishes, his entire body is coiled like a man about to leap.

 

Preston doesn’t even try to hide that he’s moving into place for a clean kill-shot. Redcastle meets his gaze and his expression sinks into that ghastly and gentle, taunting and absolving rictus-smile.

 

“What if what John wanted was for _you_ to . . . carry on? To live your _best_ possible life and be your best possible _self_ , if only to spit in the eye of the folks riggin’ the game and rootin’ for you to fail? What if he wanted you to _live_ , and be happy and _win_ — _whether_ that means startin’ from scratch and buildin’ a new life without him . . . or even just strugglin’ on in the one ya got now?” Wyatt sighs and shakes his head ruefully, as if regretting what he’s just said, yet seeing no other choice but to follow the statement to its terminus. “Makin’ it a monument to his death and a vehicle for never-endin’ vengeance? With nothin’ but the hope of seein’ them assholes suffer _ten times as bad as you have and will_ to keep ya goin’?”

 

Redcastle turns his nightmare-grin to Wyatt, who doesn’t even shudder. He’s got one-up on Preston, in that arena.

 

“Dead people don’t want things, Mr. Sturges,” Redcastle says again, as gentle as an adult explaining the real world to a very naïve child. Then he raises his voice slightly. “You’re _gonna_ have to kill me, Garvey. There’s no getting around that. Only thing _you_ get to decide is if that happens before or after I take what you love to Hell, with me. And you better decide _quick_.”

 

Which is the _exact-right_ goad to get Preston to not just get his musket in the right line-of-sight, but to crouch into a more stable stance and present a smaller target. He also aims along the barrel and through the narrow sight: sniper-style. Finally beyond ifs, ands, or buts, he puts pressure on the trigger just enough that the musket’s near-silent, standby hum becomes an audible, reedy crackle-hiss. . . .

 

“Don’t you _dare_ , Preston Garvey!” Wyatt barks like a drill-sergeant, and without looking around. Then he shifts so that he’s blocking Preston’s shot _again_. Preston doesn’t lower his musket, however, and starts to shift to his left again s-l-o-w-l-y. Wyatt can’t block forever, after all. “ _Listen to me_ , Nathan: What if I told you that . . . _you don’t have John’s permission to throw away his sacrifice?_ That you _would_ never and _will_ never? That you got _livin’_ to do— _helpin’ and savin’_ to do—and some wrongs to right before you get to rest and be done for keeps? That he didn’t save your life, he _assigned you_ a lifelong _mission_?”

 

What Preston can once more see of Redcastle’s expression has been slo-mo shifting from vaguely frightening to poignantly _frightened_ : vulnerable and wounded and accusing. His eyes are wide and stricken, his mouth ticking and trembling. The tears, however, have trickled to a near-stop, the most recent one dripping off the tip of his nose as he sniffles and moans.

 

“Why?” he asks Wyatt, his shoulders shivering and shaking as he wrinkles his nose and a big sob, raw and primal and hoarse, burbles out of his throat. Though . . . it also sounds like a mad, miserable guffaw. And there are more waiting in the wings, it’s clear, but Redcastle’s holding them in so hard, his entire body is quivering and quaking like he’s about to fly apart. “Why’re you _doing_ this? Why . . . why can’t you let me at least _die_ in peace?”

 

“Gotta earn it, first, friend.” Wyatt shrugs. “You been makin’ a _helluva_ start, I reckon . . . but ya ain’t done, yet. There’s too much stuff that only a guy like you—that _only you_ —can do and be and fight. The _only_ peace and mercy you ain’t _ever_ gonna have to earn is livin’ on the path ya started down. _Live in your choices_ , and if you’re lucky, you’ll die in ‘em, too. Then _maybe_ . . . eventually, whatever peace you’ve earned will find you. In some form or other.” He reaches out so, _so_ slowly, and lets his right hand settle on Redcastle’s left shoulder. “But it ain’t close, yet, and it won’t _never_ be _for free_.”

 

Redcastle shivers and hangs his head again. This time, when he sobs, it’s silent, but _violent_.

 

It actually looks _physically painful_.

 

Wyatt squeezes Redcastle’s shoulder _hard_ for a minute, then lets go, his hand dropping hesitantly to John’s forehead. It rests for a moment, before shifting to _his_ shoulder. Then, after several moments of instant, almost galvanized tension, Wyatt’s hand shifts a bit lower and stays there for a couple minutes while Redcastle breaks down and almost convulses in his grief.

 

“ _Sonuvabee_ ,” Wyatt finally breathes, nearly too quiet for Preston to hear. Then: “Sonuva-motherflippin’- _bee_ —Pres! Go get some stimpaks—whatever Nathan and John brought with ‘em!”

 

“ _What_?” Preston demands, startled and instinctively pressing the trigger a little more as Redcastle jumps in response to Wyatt’s shouting, then starts to reach toward his waist, as if for a holstered pistol. Wyatt doesn’t seem to notice, because he’s laughing and digging in the front pocket of his overalls, pulling out _their_ last three stimpaks, which he’s been hoarding and saving for weeks, now.

 

And which he’d _insisted_ on bringing with him when Preston had finally given up on trying to get him to _stay behind_ , because despite the deathclaw-roars having faded to even-more-ominous silence, there might still be trouble.

 

Now, Wyatt deftly prepares and administers all three to John’s corpse in rapid succession, with steady, sure hands. He’s still laughing when he tosses the empty syringes away and pats John’s chest lightly.

 

Redcastle, however, is now staring at Wyatt as if _Wyatt’s_ the one who’s gone mad.

 

Preston _also_ has a foot in that same dinghy.

 

“Stimpaks don’t bring people back from the dead, Sturges,” Redcastle says, raw-voiced and uncomfortable, but almost kind. _He_ puts a shaking, heavy hand on _Wyatt’s_ shoulder and awkwardly pats it exactly two times. “Thanks, anyway, but I already tried. Had three on me, and John had two—a third of what we’d brought with us to Concord . . . but they didn’t help. I don’t think the other ten would have, either. Or another ten million.”

 

Wyatt snorts and grabs Redcastle’s hand, before it can settle back on _John’s_ dead hand. He yanks it to the left side of John’s unmoving chest and ignores Redcastle’s faint, wounded-pleading groan. He doesn’t let the other man pull away— _holds_ his big, shaking hand _there_ , on John’s chest, for nearly three minutes, as Preston can reckon it.

 

It’s _definitely_ at least two minutes, anyway, before Redcastle’s eyes go wider than ever and his mouth drops open in a poleaxed gape.

 

Then, his entire body sags with greater relief than Preston could have ever conceived of before this moment—let alone had ever _seen_. Redcastle lets out another sob-laugh and his breath gusts in and out in hyperventilating whooshes. Wyatt squeezes Redcastle’s hand then rests his own on it, just like Redcastle’s hand rests on John’s chest. Then he huffs with put-on irritation.

 

“Goddamn, possum-playin’ ghouls. Hearts ain’t never good for more’n a beat a minute. Even when they _ain’t_ half-dead!” he exclaims gleefully. “Betcha ain’t took _that_ into account, Mr. Emo-Drama-Tastic!”

 

Redcastle’s reluctant grin is full of hope and doubt, joy and fear: tremulous and painfully beatific. “It’s Nate, actually. And . . . I surely hadn’t. I’ve been a bit overwrought, for the past little while.” He _laugh-sobs_ again and looks down at John before hugging him close, kissing every bit of the apparently not-so-dead ghoul he can reach from his awkward, bent-over angle. “John . . . oh, God, _Johnny_. . . thank you. _Thank you_ , for s-saving him, Mr. Sturges.”

 

“Only the _cap-ih-tano_ ever calls me _Mr. Sturges_. To you an’ John, I’d be honored to be just _Wyatt_.” After a minute of watching Redcastle rock and hold and kiss his lover, Wyatt shrugs. “An’ it wasn’t _nothin’_ you didn’t do for me an’ mine, Nate. ‘Sides: _You_ saved him. Saved you _both_. All I did was notice an’ point it out. An’ help it along a _little_ bit. But y’all’re welcome to all that and more. Anytime, _amigo_.”

 

“I . . . _I_ saved him?” Redcastle asks, his eyes gone _huge_ and locking to Wyatt’s face again. He looks about as lethal as a kitten that just woke up from a long nightmare.

 

Preston finally lowers his musket for good. Powers it down and even relaxes some when Wyatt chuckles. Then he smiles, relief, gratitude, and _hope_ hitting him because for the first day in a long string, no heroes had been lost between sun-up and-sun-down.

 

And though it’d been a close call, indeed, no new monsters had been spawned. Nor old ones.

 

“Sure, ya did! Rode in on a white charger, an’ everything! You saved _everyone_ here, Nate. Ya done _real good_. John’ll be so fuckin’ _proud_ of you.” Wyatt claps Redcastle’s left bicep and the man’s tremulous smile widens with such a fearful, intense need to _believe_. “But he ain’t outta the woods, yet. He’s still hurt real bad, and needs the rest of them stimpaks y’all brought—not to mention plenty of Med-X to dull the pain as he gets closer to wakeful—and someplace safe where they can work their magic. Heal him up _all the way_.”

 

Redcastle nods earnestly and Preston slings the musket on his shoulder by the strap, then shifts it so it’s hanging behind his back. His own relief has to fight past the sudden tsunami of numbness overlaying the near-certainty that he could have and almost _did_ lose Wyatt Sturges. He only hopes his detachment from the prospect of such a huge loss lasts until after they’re on the move . . . maybe even until they’re somewhere safe. Safe- _er_. “I’ll go get the stimpaks, Wyatt. Then I’ll round up the others and our gear, and we’ll move out before nightfall. It’ll be dangerous, but probably less dangerous than still being here when the Raiders that got away bring more cavalry.”

 

Wyatt glances back at Preston, brow furrowed and eyes worried, and nods his agreement. “Road’s better’n here, yeah . . . but only barely. Ain’t _no_ kinda place for a man to heal from a broken _everything_ , though.”

 

“But we can’t stay in the first place the Raider reinforcements’ll expect us to still be. Like sitting ducks,” Preston replies apologetically, and Wyatt nods again. And smiles, too, when Preston manages a tiny grimace that’s probably not reassuring.

 

“You’re right. As usual.” Wyatt winks. “Not to mention _lucky_ you’re so handsome and honorable and sweet—and that you know how to wear _every inch_ of that uniform . . . mm _hmm_ , even that stupid hat. Otherwise, I’d find you just plain _unbearable._ ”

 

Blushing under Wyatt’s unhidden, sultry-hungry elevator-eyes, Preston clears his throat and smirks. But only for a moment. “One-third of _your_ height is your _hair_ , and you’re critiquing what’s on _my_ head? Well. Even after having to run and leave almost everything behind, a bunch of times . . . considering your many pot-kettle issues, at least we won’t ever lack for cookware. Even if we lack for food. Silver linings abound. Back in five, Mr. Sturges. Hold down the fort.”

 

Wyatt blushes and beams, his gaze gone goofy and glowing. “Yes, _sir_.”

 

Everything decided and settled, for better or worse, Preston’s smiling as he turns back toward the museum.

 

“Um. Actually,” Redcastle says, then pauses. Preston pauses, as well.

 

When Redcastle goes on, his voice is still quiet, but stronger. Determined. _Hopeful_. “I . . . know a place nearby that might be safe. -Ish. A _sanctuary_ , and much better than a night on the road, or in the wild. The kind of place Raiders wouldn’t be likely to find now, if they haven’t _already_ stumbled across it. It’s less than half an hour’s walk from here, for someone uninjured and unencumbered. Maybe an hour or more for . . . someone carrying wounded.”

 

Preston looks back at Redcastle. He’s holding John close and tight—protective—but he’s staring northwest. His gaze ticks back to Preston, and though it’s worried and strained, it’s still gobsmacked and beatific with relief and joy. “I can give you directions to get there—either by Lowell Road, or Monument Street. Former’s a _little_ faster, but the latter’s probably a good bit safer.”

 

Wyatt is also staring at Preston, his eyes solemn and intent. Preston avoids that anxious look and glances at the dead deathclaw. Then he looks northwest, like Redcastle had.

 

A sanctuary sounds _damned_ good, right about now. And the sooner, the better.

 

However. . . . .

 

However.

 

“If it’s gonna take us an hour to get there, then we’d all best shake a tailfeather,” Preston says, terse and completely discouraging regarding _any_ backtalk or buts. Then he turns away from Redcastle’s surprised, _touched_ gratitude and Wyatt’s _unsurprised,_ breathless admiration. He clears his throat and takes a few steps toward the museum before stopping again. “If Monument Street’s safer, Redcastle, we’ll take that route—with my thanks for your kindness and help. If we’re gonna be on the road at dusk, it might as well be the safer one.”

 

“Ten-four, Officer Garvey.” Redcastle’s voice is choked and still so endlessly grateful.

 

He’s a titan of person in a lot of ways, Preston supposes . . . a titan who’s sometimes made of fragile crystal. And whose feet sometimes turn to clay.

 

A titan who’s also at least as much of a leviathan.

 

Though, now that he’s once again got someone to guide and support him, restrain and contain him— _love and humanize_ him—that crystal will perhaps become more like diamond, and the clay become more like granite. Perhaps that polar dichotomy of titan-versus-leviathan will settle somewhere in the middle, near-abouts . . . _decent person_.

 

In time. And at least until unexpected tragedy and loss strike so close to home again.

 

 _At least,_ Preston hopes that’s so. That’s all _any_ of them who aren’t Redcastle and John _can_ do. Redcastle will probably always be the X-factor—to some extent or other—that most people can’t even reliably predict, let alone control.

 

And perhaps that’s unfortunate. But it’s not nearly as important as the fact that as long as Redcastle _can_ find, make, or _accept_ reasons to get up and keep going, and not sink into his worst instincts—as long as he can keep finding reasons to _be human_ —he will.

 

He will.

 

And the best reason of all is starting to moan and twitch, weak and sluggish and _alive_ , in Redcastle’s arms.

 

 _Good enough, then_.

 

Preston nods, tips his hat to Redcastle and Wyatt, respectively, and strides off, museum-ward. Redcastle’s soft, renewed sobs—and Wyatt’s drawling, jollying prattle and reassurances—follow him most of the way.


	10. 8A. MED-X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In total, John Hancock comes back from the dead _three times_ —near as far as he can reckon—before that come-back finally sticks. He meets some new companions and one not-so-new companion. And he’s also, finally, reunited with his Vaultie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes/Warnings: Rearrangement of canon timeline events. Set just post-‘When Freedom Calls’ quest. SPOILERS. Mentions of canon characters and events. Mentions of violence, and severe injury to a major character. Allusion to past murderous rampages. Implied past- and briefly present-suicidal ideation. Consensual rough sex, sadomasochism, and injury.

 

In total, John Hancock comes back from the dead _three times_ —near as far as he can reckon—before that come-back finally sticks.

 

 

**One**

  

The first time John surfaces from endless darkness and unknowing, he’s greeted by blunt, throbbing pain in every centimeter of him—even in his damn teeth and the hair he no longer has.

 

As the dull pain sharpens into agony, the hazy return to something like cogent awareness begins. It starts with a name trembling and tripping off his dry, barely-there-lips . . . and it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. It means love and certainty and forever. Home and happiness. The best hard _and_ soft place.

_Home_.

 

Even missing most of his marbles and sense, John knows at least _that much_.

 

This name, “ _Nate_. . . .” means _everything_.

 

And the lack of the _everything_ that word, name, and _person_ has come to mean is somehow more distressing than the incomprehensible and increasing agony trying to wash his entire being and self, back out to sea, and to an ocean of eternal darkness, loneliness, and silence.

 

“Nate . . . _please, Nate_. . . .” he huffs out, in a voice that’s broken and hoarse. That’s little more than wrenching, rasping gasps and sobs for a loss he can’t even accept, let alone fully comprehend. Not even as its full weight crushes the breath and soul—not to mention his comprehension of his _physical_ agony and its meaning—out of him.

 

No pains could compare in any way with a lack of _Nate_. Especially a _forever_ -lack.

 

But they sure seem Hell-bent on amplifying it.

 

John’s body, despite its infirmity and agony, is wracked with deep, violent sobs and shudders. Nonetheless, he can’t even summon the wherewithal to curl into a self-protective ball. He tries, his bare limbs and extremities trembling with fatigue and ache—with weakness.

 

But after what feels like a season in Hell, he gives up and lies as he’d woken: Sprawled under what feels like a soft, five-tons sheet and a scratchy, twenty-tons blanket. Under his head is something soft and gentle-sweet-clean smelling—more like resting his head in a pile of his Mama’s scarves and shawls the way he’d used to as a kid, rather than a pillow.

 

John moans, weaker, still, and barely conscious, now. As much as he loves and misses his Mama, and always will . . . he’d give up his every loving memory of her and the soul he’s not even sure he believes he has, just to get _Nate back_. Nate by his side. Nate in his arms, perfect and right, and perfectly, rightly tiny’ed up.

 

Nate _smiling at him_ . . . _beaming_ with those glowing, happy, love-abyss _eyes_.

 

Nate’s poor, tired, vulnerable _heart_ . . . minus an unexpected deathclaw and too much _Psychobuff_. . . .

 

 _Nate_.

 

“Please, no . . . _no_ ,” he whispers, too far gone under a nightmare-universe of loss and despair to maintain his sobs and gasps. Even the shuddering is more like involuntary twitching than it is a response to total and surely permanent loss of all warmth.

 

John’d once told Nate that because of rads, he’d never be chilly again. It’d been half-frustrated lament and half-boast. But the universe’s sure seen fit to call him on that. Because now, John Hancock’s not just chilly, he’s _cold_. _So cold_. And he will never, _ever_ be warm again. _Could never be_ , now that _Nate’s_. . . now that _his sunshine_ is _—_

 

“Good afternoon, sir! _Chuffed_ to see you awake, at last!” A sudden, boisterous, and vaguely familiar male tenor exclaims from near John’s right foot. He starts, his exhausted, aching eyes flying open. Diffuse, overcast light—after so long in darkness beyond consciousness and existence—fries his sensitive eyes and he hisses, moans, and half-manages to curl onto his right side after shutting them. Toward the strident, poorly-modulated voice, but away from the sources of the dim, iffy light.

 

The blanket and sheet shift and cling, and don’t fall off, not that it matters. Because even if John were clothed and under fifty blankets, he’d still be a block of permafrost.

 

“Mister Nathan has been absolutely _beside himself_ with worry for almost eight days, now, sir! Not sleeping or eating—always out scavenging the area for supplies with Captain Garvey and Missus Long. Or, er, hmm, thinning out the local fauna with such dismaying vigor and enthusiasm . . . dear, me!” the voice goes on fretfully. Though that strident pep is soon reasserted. “But never mind _that_ —how _pleased_ sir will be to see you’re back with us at last!”

 

“Whuhhh . . . the _fuhhh_. . . ?” John groans and coughs. Then groans again, long and loud when a huge, pain ebb-tide sweeps him out into the shallows before he can ask _who-the-fuck-ever this is_ about . . . _Mister Nathan_. But he gasps and shivers as the blanket is whipped up a bit, and a cold, metallic clamp takes his left wrist gently, but firmly, and lifts it. After a prolonged hold, the voice tsks and sputters almost officiously.

 

“Oh, my! But this won’t do _, at all_! Forgive me, sir, for not measuring your last dose of Med-X and timing the administering of the _next one_ more properly! Your, er, _special physiology_ is rather more difficult for me to predict than that of a, er, more _common_ sort of human! But never fear!” That clamp on John’s wrist is joined by another just above his elbow. Then, there’s a brief, wet swipe with a bit of cloth, to the crease of John’s elbow. The faint scent of something astringent makes John’s sinuses prickle and his eyelids squint open. The light, though shuttered, like it’s coming through a curtained window, is still murder for his eyes. Everything is just sluggishly shifting smears of light and dark. “I’ve already learned _ever so much_ from tending to you, Mister Hancock! My dosing and timing _have_ improved with every shot I administer!” 

 

John automatically winces from there-and-gone pricking in the spot that’d been swiped a few moments ago. A rush of warmth and relaxation seems to spread throughout his veins. His body. His _being_. One he recognizes and is somewhat familiar with.

 

“ _There_ we go! Such a _model_ patient you’ve been, sir, if you’ll allow me to say! It has, indeed, been my pleasure and _honor_ to—”

 

“ _N-Nate_?” John forces out around the lassitude stealing his motor-control, his voice, his consciousness. His burning-weary eyes close with heavy relief, shutting out even the dimmest, kindest smears of light. “ _’Live?_ ”

 

“I should say _so_ , sir! Why, Mister Nathan has never been quite _this_ alive, in my experience! Very busy, too—idle hands, and all that, I wot! At the moment and as usual since his return, he’s off clearing the area of hostiles and undesirables of every stripe. All the better to keep us safe and secure! Though he unfortunately seems to come back from his, er, outings a bit worse-for-wear, he _did_ seem rather chipper that evening last week. After he found that well-behaved, but terribly _odd_ stray at the Red Rocket truck-stop.” The speaker pauses to huff and grumble, but good-naturedly. “Nevertheless, after a few hours spent sitting at _your_ bedside, Mister Hancock, sir _always_ seems rather replenished and soothed. Happy and content, I’d _dare_ say! Almost the way he _used to be_ , before that _dreadful_ bit of business a few years back, when he, Miss Jennifer, and Master Shaun were forced to . . . well!”

 

Despite John’s rapid, unstoppable sinking and the ebb-tide carrying him farther from the shores of wakefulness and existence—into a gentle ocean of soft, pain-free midnight—the heretofore reassuring lull of the speaker’s anxious, brittle-bright exclamation jogs him momentarily back to half-wakefulness. To a _realization_ that does more to reassure and lull than any amount of semi-familiar blatherskite.

 

“ _Sunshiiiiiiiine_. . . .” he hums, muzzily calmed and nearly high on sludgy bliss that’s only partly the Med-X.

 

“Hmm? Oh, well, I suppose so, sir . . . today _is_ rather overcast, for such a brisk, blustery autumn, but, yes! _Any_ sunshine, even if it’s a bit iffy, is preferable to none, eh?”

 

John, floating in the middle of the kind, embracing ocean and on the cusp of unconsciousness sighs his unhesitating agreement. _Nate’s okay_ , and for now . . . that’s enough to make _John_ okay. And safe. And secure. And certain that he still has all the reasons to _keep_ waking-up no matter how far into the midnight ocean he drifts.

 

A hearty, robust chuckle then persnickety blather—John’s suddenly reminded of Whitechapel Charlie (a less terse, _very_ hoity-toity version of him, anyway) with a slight pang of wistfulness—serenade John off to his chemmed-up dreamland. “Oh, but, _do_ listen to me prattle on! My programming must be going dodgy after so long with no one to fuss over! I _have_ so missed being of service and being . . . needed. That amiable wag, Mister Sturges, calls me _Mama Codsworth_ —but I rather think he means that as a compliment! I certainly take it as such! And Mister Nathan says he doesn’t know _how_ he’d have managed without me to care for _both_ you and him _properly_. But I take _no credit_ —it’s what dear, kind Miss Jennifer would have _wanted_ , so I could do _no less_. . . .”

 

 

**Two**

 

John’s second reanimation is a slower, more difficult process than the first, but it comes with far less pain, disorientation, and fear.

 

He struggles up from the depths of his midnight ocean, dog paddles laboriously toward the shore on a steady flow-tide, and winches his tired, weighty eyelids open when he’s splashing in the shallows.

 

Wherever he is, it’s mostly dark, but for the soft glow of a lamp on a wide, squat dresser, across from where he’s lying. Several feet to the left of that dresser is a chair and desk also pushed against the wall. Further left, still, set in the perpendicular wall, is an apparently large, but tightly shuttered window. To the extreme right, back past the dresser, is a shadowed entryway John’s eyes can’t pierce. Perpendicular to that is a half-open door which is likely to a closet.

 

John, himself, is lying in a wide bed that seems to take up nearly half the room he’s in. There are small, ancient-looking night-tables to either side of it. The one on the left has John’s tricorne on it, just in front of another small lamp, as well as a tall, clear glass bottle—unstoppered, but considerately covered by a down-turned cup—filled with purified water.

 

On the right night-table, silent but reassuring and within easy lunging-distance, is Nate’s best semi-automatic pistol—with the safety on—and three spare clips.

 

 _Just in case unexpected shit goes down, and I find myself in need of an equalizer_ , John knows and smiles fondly. But fleetingly, as he thinks of grenade belts and deathclaws.

 

He blinks away blurriness with limited success, becoming once more aware, as he does, of the weight of the sheet and blanket covering his bare body. He’s warm, if not as warm as he’d normally be. But he senses he’s getting there—getting . . . better.

 

He starts to shift himself, arms and legs and head, meaning to sit up, stand up, and figure out where the hell he and everybody else is. Where the hell _Nate_ is—if that Whitechapel Charlie voice-double hadn’t been full of shit. Or a fever-dream.

 

He starts to stretch and groan, while marshaling the energy and will to lift his head and get his arms braced to either side of him. All in preparation for some laborious sitting up. But a solid, warm weight promptly settles on his calves with a friendly whuff.

 

Startled, yet again, John _does_ get part of the way upright from sheer surprise, bracing himself none-too-steadily on trembling arms and hands. A few moments later, he’s blinked his eyes fully clear, and in the economical light and range of the lamp he sees, sprawled on his legs. . . .

 

. . . a _dog_.

 

Surprised, but not startled this time, John simply gapes at the happily recumbent canine—a German Shepard. And a _huge_ one, too, with soulful, dark eyes as alert as anything and a nonstop pant that looks like a curious and daffy smile.

 

“Ahhh, hey, boy,” John rasps and rumbles. His voice is more shaped air than actual tone. But the German Shepard whuffs again, affable and happy, his big, brush tail a blur of excited wagging. John tries to shift his legs under the dog’s weight, but that doesn’t seem to be happening. Nor does the dog seem inclined to let it happen.

 

“Well, you’re a sturdy fella,” John finally decides after a minute of fruitless, covert attempts at getting at least one leg from under the unshiftable Shep—with the dog’s bright, uncannily _aware_ gaze on him the whole time. Somehow amused, and still friendly. “Where’d you even come from, huh, boy? Where are we?”

 

The dog pauses his eager-happy panting as if thinking up a concise answer, then he barks once: a low, rolling WHOOF. It’s followed by two more barks, much less firm and heavy—almost puppyish, in fact.

 

“Is ‘at so?” John asks the dog and receives another puppyish bark. He chuckles around a sudden yawn. “Don’t s’pose you’d be good enough to ease off my shins, so I c’n try an’ get up?”

 

There’s another thoughtful, pant-free pause, then another WHOOF, solemn and final. John takes that as a _no_ and sighs.

 

“Well, then. I ain’t in a shape to argue with you,” he says around a second yawn, bigger and longer than the last. Lassitude that feels like actual _weariness_ —not just his body collapsing under the strains and demands of injury and agony, or of sedative painkillers—settles in every atom of his body: heavy, slow, and rather sweet, like molasses.

 

He’s alive and apparently on the mend. _His Vaultie_ is alive, too. And if Nate’s got a say—he probably has _all_ the say, regarding John’s safety and care—then John’s more secure than he’s been since he was a babe in arms.

 

That’s enough. More than. For the moment.

 

John exerts himself to stay upright a little longer. But his arms are shaking and trembling worse than even just a few moments ago. “Listen, boy, d’ya know where Nate is?”

 

 _This_ earns John another excited, puppyish bark that’s practically a yip. Followed by a bunch more, and the dog squirming-shifting closer until he’s licked John’s face several times, slobbery and affectionate and reassuring.

 

“ _That_ , I’ll take as a _yes_. Ah, _jeez_ , ha,” John chuckles breathlessly, laughing and finally at the end of his little bit of strength for the time being. He flops back into the pile of soft cloth passing as his pillow, flailing a bit and fending off the Slobber-Tongue of Affection when it follows him briefly. Once the Shep’s given up trying to lick John’s face right off his head, the eyes John’d closed to avoid the onslaught of abundant dog-drool don’t seem to want to open again.

 

He yawns a third time, huge and uncontrolled, and when it’s over, his whole body just _settles_. Sinks into the mattress and his own feelings of safety, security, and on-the-mend-ness.

 

“Wanna play, buddy?” he asks around yet another yawn. “Let’s play . . . _fetch_. Go fetch _Nate_ , f’r me . . . I _miss_ him. An’ ’m still _cold_ ,” he informs the dog, who barks some more, exited and _loud_.

 

But not loud enough to keep John on the shore. The sea, on a new, painless ebb-tide, surges up around him again, and sweeps him out to the midnight ocean. He drifts away to the sounds of semi-distant footsteps hurrying closer and a familiar, Capitol Wasteland-drawl shouting with fond waspishness: “Hold yer horses, Prima Dogga! I’m-a comin’! Sheesh!”

 

 _Well, at least the_ pretty people _made it out alive_ , John thinks with even more relief and _very_ welcome amusement. He’s smiling as consciousness catches a good head wind again. _Drifts into the waters beyond the edges of his map. Again._

 

 

**Three**

 

The third time John lifts the lingering, succoring shroud of darkness off his existence, there’s no Whitechapel Charlie voice-alike and no German Shepard.

 

But there _is_ Sturges, sitting on the right edge of the bed and smiling at John with more than a little smugness. He pats John’s covered ankle fondly.

 

“Damn-near to the _exact_ second. Mama Codsworth’s on his fuckin’ _game_!” the man says, grinning winningly, made for and showcased by the pale-gold, late morning sun shining in through the window and some gauzy, white curtains. He looks _well_ : clean and relaxed and happy, wearing rough-weave denim trousers and a warm-looking, blue flannel shirt. His ridiculous pompadour is glossy and pristine.

 

“Hey-hey, Urges-Stay,” John yawns through a smile and Sturges grins even wider.

 

“Well, hey, _yerself_ , sleepyhead! Was beginnin’ to think you’d sleep through Armageddon. Well . . . the next one.” Sturges winks and chuckles. “An’ it’s _Wyatt, amigo_. I ain’t ever one to stand on formality or ceremony.”

 

“Neither’m I. Call me _John_. Or _Hancock_ , as suits ya.” John closes his eyes again for a few moments, reveling in the fact that when he chooses, he’ll be able to open them again. And easily.

 

“Alrighty, then, I surely will, John. How ya feelin’?”

 

“Five-by-five, for a guy who was dead for a while.”

 

“ _Naaaaw_ , y’weren’t dead. Well . . . maybe a _little_ bitty-bit. Mostly, you were just kinda critical for a couple days. Not gonna lie, there were some touch-and-goes that first night we were here. But you been stable and healin’ steadily ever since the second mornin’. Stimpaks and Med-X’re some _good shit_.”

 

“Huh.” John’s behind-my-eyelids darkness isn’t black, but a very, very deep purple. Velvet-soft, in a shade of four a.m. lavender. He may not be trippin’ balls, but Med-X is, indeed, some good shit. “Would _here_ be Sanctuary Hills?”

 

“Ya sure don’t miss a trick, do ya, John?”

 

“Not often, nope.” John yawns again and reluctantly considers reopening his eyes. He’d never been particular about purples, before, but _Nate_ sure as shit was and is, and that’d seemed like plenty of reason for John to pay them closer attention. So, he has. _Especially_ the lavenders and indigos: melancholy and mysterious, respectively. _Those_ shades have always reminded him of Nate.

 

When John finally blinks his way back to the sunlit room and an easily smiling Wyatt, he takes a breath and says, with every atom of sincerity in him: “Thank you.”

 

Wyatt’s brows lift. “Uh, you’re welcome? But I wasn’t the _only_ one who helped get ya here. It was a team effort.”

 

John snorts. “Didn’t mean for me—though, _yeah_ , thanks for that, too. I meant . . . _thanks_ for whatever you did or said to keep Nate from goin’ off the deep-end.” After a pause, John sighs again. “He’s _my sunshine_ and I love him more than anythin’. For keeps. And I wouldn’t have that or him be _any_ other way. But I _know_ him. Maybe better than _he_ knows him, sometimes. So, I’m certain I owe _someone_ six metric shit-tons of gratitude for wranglin’ him, and keepin’ him from goin’ someplace . . . irredeemable. Darker. I’m _thinkin’_ that someone is probably _you_.”

 

Wyatt’s smile slips a bit, then firms up. “ _De nada_ , _sen-yorrr_. I’m just glad when I get a chance to use my damn blarney at all. Since Quincy, and up until our third night here, I was lucky to get a few moments to flirt with Pres, let alone talk my way into his, _ahem_ , good graces.” He snorts, then blushes, his eyes going dazed and fond for most of a minute before he focuses on John again and shrugs. “So, talkin’ your _Mr. Sexy-Squint Mayhem-Pants_ down off his bell-tower was a refreshin’ change and a can’t-miss opportunity to gift my gab to the worthwhile. Which is my way of sayin’ I was glad to help.”

 

John smirks and holds Wyatt’s gaze until it turns solemn, then obviously wants to falter again. But it _doesn’t_. Whatever kind of yellow-streak might hide behind Wyatt Sturges’s bombast and playfulness, it’s not going to be peeking-out, today.

 

“You knew him from . . . _before_. Knew Nate,” John says, and it’s not a question. He waves a heavy-tired hand and wiggles his fingers to connote that vague _before_ -time. Wyatt’s smile slides slowly away, and he sighs and slumps for a few moments, before squaring up again and meeting John’s gaze. His is hooded and steady—still and weighing in the way Nate’s stare can sometimes be: _Distant and unknowable_.

 

“ _Knew_ him? No. I knew _of_ him. Hell, who _didn’t_ know and grow on stories about the legendary _Nathan Redcastle Hewitt_ — _grandson_ of Fleet Admiral _James “Hewey” Hewitt_ —model soldier and patriot! Hero of the 108th Infantry! The _youngest_ army officer to ever earn the rank of _Major_ on the field, and the _only_ Major to ever be promoted to _Lieutenant Commander_ less than a year later! Why, when he mustered-out, he did so, wearing _his_ weight _and_ part of another person’s in medals, all over his best-dress! The _president_ , himself, even shook his hand at the special medal-ceremony—and kissed _Jennifer_ Hewitt on the cheek! What a time! What a tale! What a _patriot_. . . !” Wyatt’s half-huckstering tone trails off and he shrugs with rather elegant self-deprecation and dismissiveness. “Oh, I know _all about_ that propaganda-horseshit. And I _might’ve_ even had a few words with the man, himself, once upon a time or two. But no, I didn’t _know_ him. And I don’t think _Nate_ remembers—or _wants_ to remember anything from . . . the place and time _our_ paths might’ve crossed. Though, I’m sure it’s tough to believe anyone’d _want_ to forget a place or time that involves _this suave stiffener_ sitting right in front of you.”

 

When Wyatt falls silent, John lets his hairless brows do some talking. Their pointedly slow raising clearly prods: “Go on.”

 

But Wyatt spreads his hands, and his renewed smile is ironic and small. His eyes are still dark, distant, and unreadable. “Anything more than _that_ isn’t my truth to tell, John. If you want more, you’ll just have to ask Nate.”

 

John shakes his head, a few sardonic chuckles escaping him. “Askin’ Nate about his past doesn’t seem . . . kind. Or _safe_. Not for Nate or anyone around him, if he’s not up to rememberin’ or recountin’,” he adds. Wyatt nods his agreement.

 

“Oh, it’s _definitely_ not either. At least, not _now_. Trust me on _that_ , if nothing else. If you can wait a bit for your answers, you really ought to do so. He trusts you _deeply_ , but he doesn’t trust _himself_. With good reason.” Wyatt looks down, biting his lip and grimacing. Finally, he meets John’s patient gaze again, his own no longer unreadable, but filled with too many emotions and memories for John to parse. “When he’s more certain of _what_ he remembers and knows, and of _how_ he’ll handle it all, Nate’ll tell you _everything_ , himself. _Anything_. He wants to, and he _will_ when he figures it out some more. In time and over time.”

 

John processes and digests this as best he can, under Wyatt’s keen and once more hooded regard. It’s a lot for a barely-awake ghoul to take-in, and John has no idea how any of it applies, if apply, it does.

 

“He _wasn’t_ on Psychobuff, was he?” he finally ventures. Wyatt’s response is a slow blink and nothing else. But John presses a bit further, to see if it garners another, more telling non-response, rather than because he thinks he’ll get an answer he can hang his tricorne on. “When he took down that deathclaw? He was movin’ faster than _anyone_ coulda—even if they were hopped-up on the full line of Psycho-laced chems all at once. _And especially_ not while fightin’ in heavy-duty, old-world power armor made to withstand a mid-sized tank rollin’ at a good clip. _No chem_ could give a regular person that kinda speed and agility, durability and strength.”

 

Interestingly, though John _doesn’t_ get a verbal response, initially, Wyatt’s face flickers, like light on a wall changing color and direction ever-so-slightly: from lighter to darker . . . or, perhaps, _from warmer to cooler_. And that’s followed by another slow blink and an absent smile.

 

“I suppose you could—and did—summarize it pretty damn accurately. Nate’s not a _regular_ person, by any imagination’s stretching. He’ll _probably_ have an interesting tale to tell about _that, too_. When he’s damned good and ready.”

 

John rolls his eyes and settles back in his erstwhile pillow, frustrated and amused. As well as strangely approving—of Wyatt’s discretion and loyalty, and the fact that Nate also inspires that in people who _aren’t_ John Hancock. “Alright. Message received, Mason-Dixon. I know when to back away from the brick wall covered in my skull-blood.”

 

Wyatt’s smile turns into a grin, huge and a little smug. But it’s friendly and warm again. John sighs.

 

“By the by . . . what happened to your chicken-fried, good-ol’-boy accent?” he asks through a big yawn. Wyatt’s grin widens more—turns lazy and _unabashedly_ smug.

 

“Aw, well, _shucks_ , Johnny-boy. _That_ -ol’-thang’s sorta like _me_ : it comes an’ it goes as it _damn-well_ pleases, don’tcha know?”

 

He waggles his eyebrows wildly. It’s easily ten times stagier and _cagier_ than _Nate’s_ waggles.

 

John rolls his eyes, and yawns again. Then laughs.

 

 

**Four**

 

About seven hours after he’d fallen asleep while listening to Wyatt recount his own, Preston’s, Nate’s, Marcy Long’s, and Codsworth’s tireless efforts to turn Sanctuary Hills and environs into a safe-haven and settlement, John finally, substantively rejoins the living.

 

 _He wakes up_.

 

He’s fully alert and aware even before he opens his eyes, this time—yawns and stretches with slow-sore, but mostly smooth and steady motions. He automatically levers himself upright under the now negligible weight of his scratchy-ass blanket and opens eyes that he only has to blink twice. Once to adapt to the bright, chilly glow of a fall sunset splashed all over the room, and once to clear his only slightly blurry vision.

 

Standing to John’s right and just inside the entryway to the room, wearing a smudgy, gray t-shirt that’s tight enough to be _extremely_ distracting, and lightweight trousers in olive-drab and his beloved boots, is Nate Redcastle.

 

Ruddy and windblown, _beautiful_ and breathing so fast-hard that John wonders if he’s been chased here . . . is _Nate Redcastle_.

 

“You’re awake,” Nate exhales, awed and meek, then takes a deep, steadying breath in, as well as exactly three steps closer to John and the bed. Then he stops himself with obviously effortful restraint, his pretty eyes huge and hopeful. “You’re . . . all right?”

 

John gazes at and takes in his Vaultie—especially the pull of that t-shirt across Nate’s broad shoulders and upper chest. The way Nate’s torso tapers elegantly down to his waist, where the mostly-tucked t-shirt has pulled free of his waistband a little. The way Nate’s trousers already sit low on his narrow hips. . . .

 

Grinning a slow, appreciative grin, John lets his eyes finish their thirsty traveling before finally meeting Nate’s brimming gaze again. He instantly feels some sweet-familiar tugs and tingles in some neglected-insistent places. “I’m the picture of ghoulish health and sexiness, sunshine. How ‘bout you?”

 

“I’m . . . I . . . I _saved you_!” Nate exclaims, half-laughing and half-crying. His voice shakes and wavers as if he’s still not certain that’s true—especially the part where John’s _safe_. He covers his mouth and laugh with his hands for a few moments . . . then he runs them up his face, and back through his bird’s nest-hair upon which he tugs _hard_. He looks perfectly torn between relieved laughter and happy sobs. “Wyatt and Preston and Codsworth _said so._ Even _Mama Murphy_ said so—and Dogmeat might’ve, too, if he could _speak_ —they _all_ said you’d pull through. That you were _strong_ and I had to have _faith_ that you . . . had good reasons to _keep on living_. But I was afraid to believe _too_ hard, in case. . . .”

 

“Yeah, brother . . . you saved me,” John confirms and reinforces: calm, certain, and still grinning. “My sunshine is _also_ my white knight, so, I’m a lucky, lucky ghoul. My only complaint is . . . why’re you still _so_ far away? Are ya _really_ gonna make a ghoul-invalid hobble across the damn room to get a kiss and an armful?”

 

No sooner have the words left John’s lips than Nate’s closed the distance between himself and the bed. He kneels on it and prowls up toward the headboard on hands and knees, then straddles John’s blanket-covered legs. He puts his hands on John’s shoulders and pushes him gently, but firmly back to the mattress and leans over him. His eyes are wide and fiercely adoring. But they flicker with consideration and hunger when John’s hands settle on his ass for purposeful squeezing and kneading.

 

“You sure you _only_ want a kiss and an armful, stud?” Nate asks, rocking forward sudden and pointed, then grinding his more-than-half hard-on against the eager-to-oblige beginnings of John’s.

 

“Well, that was just for starters—to get the ball rollin’. I figured you might have some ideas on how we could _keep_ it rollin’. I’m game for _anything_ my sunshine wants.” John tightens his grip on Nate’s ass and gets a sharp-pretty-dangerous smirk in return. Nate’s hard and breathing that way—practically panting. The hands braced on John’s shoulders are hot enough that their heat is distinguishable from John’s almost-back-to-normal, rad-enhanced body temperature.

 

After however many days of clearing out the area of and around Sanctuary Hills—and slightly further afield—with Preston Garvey, as well as waiting for John to wake up, Nate’s wound tighter than tight. And John’s not unmoved by that and by the sight, sound, feel, scent, and _please-yes-soon_ _taste_ of his precious, perfect Vaultie. Even with the last of the Med-X still in his system, slowing him and dulling him, John’s body is breaking land-speed records getting as hard as it can.

 

Any expression of the desire and need he’ll always feel for Nate is something his body will never _not_ be up for. Not even on his death-bed, which _this bed_ is thankfully not.

 

“Tell me what you want, love. What you _need_?” John breathes, soft and sincere.

 

“ _You_ ,” Nate purrs, only it’s really a growl, snickering, and predatory. “ _Just you_.”

 

Then, in perfect sync, he and John are contrasting and complementary flurries of urgent motion. Nate’s pulling off the showcasing t-shirt then rolling off John and next to him on the bed. He kicks off his boots and wrestles off his olive-drab trousers, under which he’s mouth-wateringly commando.

 

At the same time, John kicks the sheet and blanket off and down to the foot of the bed. It takes longer than it should, and even before he’s done, Nate’s rough, strong hand is on his dick. Has him in a hot-tight, familiar-possessive grip. John moans in deep relief from and anticipation of the demanding, hardcore-intense handjob that’s imminent.

 

Despite lingering fatigue and weakness, it’s barely a few strokes into that handjob before John’s bucking up into Nate’s ministrations like a man who’s in the bloom of health, and about to be in the throes of an H-bomb-sized release.

 

It’s only slightly further into the proceedings, that John’s groaning and gasping into Nate’s mouth, as well as bucking and fucking into Nate’s grip. Normally, John gives as good as he gets when it comes to Nate’s drowning-devouring kisses, but he knows that even if he were running at peak, Nate’s going to be running at peak- _er_. Hotter. _Hungrier_ and more desperate.

 

It isn’t long after that, that John’s leaking and shaking and on the cusp of _exploding_. Nate quickly, ungently clamps down on him, easing their make-out meltdown into something that’s nearly chaste.

 

“Not yet, baby, not yet,” he whispers between those frustratingly sweet and soothing kisses, and fervent promises of love. With momentous effort, John regains some of his self-control and self-possession, then pulls Nate closer and tighter to him. His left hand, which had settled on Nate’s left hip, clamps bruise-tight and hard, before moving quickly to Nate’s ass again. He doesn’t stop for squeezing and kneading, this time; he immediately teases and tickles his way to Nate’s asshole, and presses against it.

 

Not quite hard enough for even shallow penetration, but hard enough to get a reaction, oh, yes.

 

“ _Jooohnny_ ,” Nate breathes on and into John’s mouth, before initiating another of his overwhelming kisses. John hums and pushes his index finger into Nate slowly, but relentlessly despite the lack of slick, _and to_ a familiar chorus of Nate’s moans and hitches and panting. The chorus intensifies exponentially when John thrusts and crooks his index finger, adds the middle one, then starts scissoring both, as well. He’s not even working for direct prostate stimulation, yet, just the slow-build burn Nate _loves_.

 

And loves _best_ when it’s coupled with feeling “overfull.”

 

Nate’s stroking John off again, slow and hard and instinctively _just right_ , as always, while grinding sporadically against John’s hip for friction. What little of John’s mind is still clinging to embodying a forward-thinking and focused Dominant partner—not to mention being _the_ Alpha-male to whom his sunshine wants so desperately to submit—is urging him to add that third finger. But then Nate starts growling: “Fuck me, John . . . fuck me right now. _Wreck me_ ,” into their sloppy, uncoordinated, biting kisses.

 

And there goes John’s focus and Alpha-composure.

 

“ _Fuck, yeah_ , love,” John groans, pulling his fingers out and automatically flailing in the direction of the left-hand night-table, just as he’d have done were they still at home, in Goodneighbor. “Gonna need some slick before we do too much more, though, sunsh—”

 

Nate’s gone before John can even finish the statement, doing his slinkiest-slither down John’s prone body, to spread his legs and lick him lingeringly from balls to tip. With a wink and a smirk, no less, when John shouts in startled pleasure. Then, he swallows John whole with a famished rumble that vibrates through John’s dick, his balls, and his entire body.

 

The pleasure-shock of _that_ is so great, it’s all John can do to keep breathing. The only reason their reunion doesn’t end _very_ prematurely is that his shock supersedes his instinct to come.

 

Nate’s still watching John’s reaction however long later, when John finally opens his blurry eyes again. He blinks them clear and gets another wink—this one solemn—then Nate’s working him with aggressively dirty technique and outrageously earnest dedication: head-bobbing, tongue-swirling, cheek-hollowing, and deep-throating.

 

He is . . . precious and _perfect_. And it isn’t long at all before John’s unable to lay back and let him take _all_ the initiative. He starts bucking and thrusting and driving himself down Nate’s throat as hard and as far as he can. Soon and as usual, _Nate’s_ the one who’s enthusiastically taking whatever’s given—enthusiastically taking dick like he’s made for and happiest doing nothing else.

 

Now, with some modicum of control granted him at the reminder that it’s his responsibility and honor to take care of his Vaultie’s needs— _whatever_ they might be—John reins himself in and keeps himself as calm as he can. In pursuit of maintaining control of their assignation and guaranteeing that both their wants and needs are met, then _exceeded_ . . . John paces himself.

 

Anyway, with as bad as he wants to come, _even coming_ won’t feel half as good as _fucking Nate Redcastle does_ and always will.

 

“So fucking gorgeous, love,” John says and sighs, reaching out to cup Nate’s tear-wet cheek in his hand. Nate’s eyes open, and he comes back a bit from his dick-sucking Happy Place and winnowed focus, and he _smiles_ at John . . . beautiful and bright and adoring. John knows he’ll never, after this moment, be able to adequately measure what he feels for Nate in mere words, or even in the sappiest abstract concepts. “Still want me to fuck you, or are you good like this. . . ?”

 

Nate’s eyes flash and he rolls them exaggeratedly, as if John’s just asked the _dumbest_ dumb-fuck question ever. With the hindsight of four seconds later, John’s pretty sure that he has. But at least Nate won’t hold it against him.

 

“Sorry, love. Alright, then,” he declares, patting his lap with both hands, his brain taking a momentary, but powerful vacation to imagining how slow and sweet he’s going to open Nate’s tight-hot body. How _slutty-mindless_ he’s going to make his sunshine before giving him _nine hundred percent dick_ . . . or as close to it as he can manage right now. “Where ya keepin’ the slick—we still have what we brought from Goodneighbor, right? If so, then all aboard the S. S. Hancock, and don’t forget to brace that ass.”

 

Another flash has barely flickered in Nate’s eyes and across his handsome-wanton face, before he’s prowled back up the bed and straddled John’s pelvis. He rocks his ass back against John’s spit-wet dick, while smirking downright _evilly_.

 

“Cock-tease . . . keep teasin’ and I’mma wear you— _aaah, fuck_! Suhhh—sunshiiii— _fuuuuuhh_ —” John yells between gasps, hoarse and breathless. Because Nate doesn’t merely stop at impaling himself—slowly and carefully, but still with no slick other than his own spit—but immediately starts clenching and working obviously distressed muscles around John’s dick. Snaking those hips like they’re made of balled bearings coated in warmed oil, and levering himself nearly completely off John, before sitting again, hard and suddenly.

 

Repeatedly.

 

John’s still shouting and gasping, moaning and groaning, but Nate is silent, his down-turned face intense and intent, determined and focused—pained and pleasured. His teeth are embedded in his lower lip almost deep enough to rend flesh, his squinched-shut eyelids and wet lashes flutter ceaselessly as the eyes behind them roll.

 

“Ah, _baby_ . . . ah, fuck, _please_ . . . _pleeeease_!” John begs so loud, he can’t even hear the occasional beat of his heart over it. His hands are clamped on Nate’s thighs, fingertips bruising and biting deep into skin and muscle. Nate continues to ride him like he’s a wild steed that needs to be broken by the most epic of aggro-fucks.

 

John’s not remotely willing to gainsay that conviction, and he’s _damned_ happy and relieved that _Nate_ —no matter how many fucks taken and received, no matter how vigorous and extreme the dicking—will _never_ be broken . . . will _always_ be wild and hungry and shameless. _Perfect_.

 

Trembling on the edge of a greater explosion than the last one had promised to be—this new one literally feels measurable only on whatever scale’s bigger and more devastating than megatons—John _just_ barely manages to hold back on that explosion. But only because the idea of them _not_ taking each other just like this for the rest of ever is abhorrent. Unnatural and unthinkable. Driven nearly insane with their mutual need and obsession to _have all of him,_ they’re well past the point of caring for or even accepting any reality other than their own.

 

After eternities of quasi-violent, semi-silent, divine harmony, Nate starts making noises again: small whimpers and truncated grunts, at first. Then, pained moans and cries that are both stubborn and frustrated.

 

He, too, is on the cusp. On more than one, as his durable, but shell-shocked body rides his favorite paired highs of bliss and agony, and his favorite and best ghoul-style dildo. John isn’t just feeling Nate’s muscles convulse involuntarily around him. He’s seeing Nate’s entire body do so. Watching it shake and shudder, jitter and judder as Nate staves off both coming and caving to his own body’s pain- and injury-limits. Every muscle of him is strung taut and tight, standing out in striking relief and definition.

 

He’s a living masterpiece and John’s hands ache and itch to _touch_ every inch of that strong, magnificent body. . . .

 

Finally, with a soft, drained whimper, Nate sits on John’s dick one final time, and slumps forward, winded and dazed. He then groans and doubles over with a strangely graceful lack of coordination, his face coming to a halt just above John’s and a couple inches to the right. His breath is hot and humid on John’s cheek.

 

“ _Johnny_ ,” he exhales, hoarse and rasping. He’s sounds like he’s fighting frustration and exasperation with himself, as well as fatigue—and losing. Probably mixed in with all that are delayed release-reactions in the wake of . . . _everything_. “ _I can’t. I_ want _to, I swear, but . . . I can’t . . ._ just can’t _, anymore_. _Sorry_. . . .”

 

“That’s not a problem, Nate. Not at all, pretty-eyes. It’ll be okay,” John soothes, wrapping his arms around Nate’s waist and kissing his wet face. “My sweet sunshine, my perfect Vaultie, my only love. I can get us there, if you can hold on a little longer. It’d be my pleasure. Think you’re alright for that, though? Not too . . . tore-up and hurt, are ya?”

 

Nate shivers when John trails his fingers down past the small of his back, to his ass for a pointed, but gentle squeeze. Then a lingering caress of the central-point of agony-ecstasy, where their bodies will _always_ be desperate-obsessed to connect.

 

“I’m okay, Johnny,” Nate whispers automatically, then makes an impatient noise—impatient with _himself_ , still, it’s clear. “I m-mean I’m . . . I can hang in there. I _want to_. I would hang in there _for eternity_ if you wanted me to. I wanna feel you come in me. I wanna come _because you came in me_. It’s been so long, and I . . . I need . . . I _want_ you to make me yours in every way you can. But especially _that_ one.”

 

John huffs a startled, elated laugh and holds Nate tighter. In-love and just inhabiting that blessed, tortuous, unparalleled space for several shining, _overfull_ moments. “Fuck . . . is it my birthday? Because it’s feelin’ like it might be my birthday, brother. Goddamn. _Goddamn_ , I love you!”

 

Despite his continued enervation, John’s desire and willpower create reserves of energy and strength where there’d been none. He pulls out carefully and rolls them over, then drags Nate down the bed and half-up over his own thighs. Then he bends a pliant and helpful Nate in half—pushes his knees up and out.

 

Wide-eyed and lost in a haze of pleasure, pain, and his rapid, willing-grateful spiral into sub-space, Nate obediently grabs his legs behind his bent knees to hold them out of John’s way. Then he lets out a loud, satisfied yowl that’d just about do John in, were he not already floored and blissed-out by re-entering Nate’s welcoming body hard, and at speed.

 

But even in the midst of his own burst of renewed energy and strength—and Nate’s obvious enjoyment, and filthy-mindless praise and encouragement—John knows neither of them has the energy, strength, or stamina to make this more than a sprint.

 

As he fucks his way deep—deeper than is wise, as is quite frequently _both_ their preference—John grabs Nate’s dick, stroking careless-rough and cruel-tight. Nate’s yowls and cries become guttural groans, then near-roars that John instantly recognizes. They’re the sweetest sounds he’s ever heard, normally, but now? They’re _everything_. Everything.

 

John finally leaves off jerking Nate’s so-pretty, so-strokeable dick and grabs his balls, instead, tugging far harder than _he’s_ ever liked, but at just about where Nate _really_ starts going ape-shit. And when John adds steadily intensifying squeezes that culminate in a series of brutal-demanding clamps and long grips, Nate keens and sobs . . . and _comes_.

 

Maybe for minutes or for hours or _for-ever_ . . . but John’s not close to complaining.

 

Nate’s head is thrown back, his throat bared and vulnerable with the pulse trip-hammering away. That pretty-strokeable dick spurts hard and frantically all over Nate’s torso, at first, then spills steadily onto his abdomen when Nate’s done with the shouting, and lost to the sobbing.

 

And when he goes from high and helpless sobs, to low and sated moans—when Nate’s body is limp, drained, and _done_ —John drives himself home _hard_ a last few times then detonates. Into pure light and heat and _love_ . . . then settles into security, serenity, and silence.

 

* * *

 

**Final Chapter, “8. MED-X . . . & EPILOGUE: TWO SOULMARKS,” goes up tomorrow (10.27.2018)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, one last chapter and this fic is COMPLETE-O.
> 
> But I've got enough headcanons to keep a series going for at least few more fics, NGL.


	11. 8B. MED-X . . . & EPILOGUE: TWO SOULMARKS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Afterglow, aftercare, a tale of two soulmarks, and a well-earned fade-to-black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes/Warnings: Rearrangement of canon timeline events. Set just post-‘When Freedom Calls’ quest. SPOILERS. Mentions of canon characters and events. Allusions to severe injury to a major character. Aftermath/afterglow of consensual rough sex and sadomasochistic sex. Aftercare and feels. So many feels. Happy, hopeful "ending."

“How does that get better _every time we do it_? Is it the frequent repeats?” John murmurs during the endless, lazy-perfect afterglow that’s seen fiery-orange sunset turn into cool-purple twilight, that’s leavened only by the small, low-watt lamp near John’s tricorne. “If so, I guess practice really does make perfect, huh, love?”

 

Sprawled partly on top of John like a gorgeously _ripped_ smoke-show of a Vaultie-blanket, with his face tucked tight against the left side of John’s neck, Nate chuckles, winces, then muffles a gasp and moan.

 

In fact, Nate’s _been_ wincing and muffling gasps since his breathing slowed and his aftershock-shivers stopped. Normally, even if injured, Nate would still be in sub-space, drifting into a sleepy-soft, pliant sub-drop. But he’s not. He’s not following his usual progression of sub-space, release, then sub-drop, now. Nate’s actually alert, bordering on edgy, and only partly because of his injuries and the pain of them.

 

John, still exhausted and definitely drifting on love and endorphins, has only just started _noticing_ this. He, too, isn’t in his normal headspace of responsible Alpha-Dom—hasn’t done the bare-minimum of aftercare-ing for and soothing/shoring-up of his injured, shaken, vulnerable, _broken-open_ Vaultie.

 

“Y’okay, love?” he asks, turning his face into Nate’s messy, autumn-and-gunmetal smelling hair even more and opening his eyes. Even with the limited illumination of the lamp, the room is almost completely smudgy-deep shadows and fantastic shapes, sleepiness and safety. John kisses his way past pokey-spiky hair until he’s kissing Nate’s crown. Nate shifts closer then makes another truncated noise of mild discomfort that’s very likely caused by outright pain, knowing how stoic and buttoned-up Nate tends to be about pains he _doesn’t_ enjoy. John sighs and kisses his head again. “Stimpak, Vaultie. _Now_.”

 

It’s not _even_ one-sixteenth request, but Nate huffs and makes a sulky, stubborn sound of protest anyhow. John snorts, sliding-shifting his left hand down Nate’s back, and finally grabs his left asscheek for more squeezing. Then he tightens its squeeze before pushing two fingers inward, pressing against Nate’s puffy, torn, blood-and-come tacky hole.

 

 _That’s_ good for an instantaneous wince-gasp-groan combo. And, also, after a few held moments—during which Nate’s muscles flutter around him in distress and desperation, before giving instinctively and gratefully—it’s good for Nate grinding with helpless, ravenous ardor against John’s left thigh. He’s not hard again, not yet, but Nate revs _fast_ when he wants to.

 

He almost _always_ wants to.

 

“ _Please_ ,” he murmurs, his voice raw and broken—hitching in the way that means he’d take _whatever_ John chose to insert, be it fingers or fist, tongue or dick, or damn-near any object that catches his creative, occasionally left-field fancy.

 

After a few moments of distracted musing, John sighs and holds firmly to his conviction to put some verb-style _care_ in _aftercare_ , for his Vaultie. He nuzzles his way to Nate’s hairline, then presses a tender kiss to his forehead. “Maybe later, sunshine—fuck knows I _wanna_. But only if you use a stimpak _now_.”

 

“Mehhh.”

 

“You didn’t use ‘em all on _me_ , didja?” John asks, frowning as he tries to angle his head, so he can see more of Nate than his forehead, brow, and nose. Nate, however, seems adamant about averting his face. And fucking himself on John’s fingers, even as he bites back hisses and gasps and grunts that aren’t as hungry-pleased as they might normally be.

 

“Yeah. But then, we got a _bunch_ more from . . . some places nearby.” Despite the negligent, drifting quality of Nate’s voice, there’s a dark-steely thread of vicious satisfaction twining throughout his tone. John rolls his eyes but smiles fondly.

 

“Been busy while I been nappin’, huh?”

 

“Affirmative.”

 

“Then ya probably been needin’ a stimpak for a variety of reasons, not just because of _this_ ,” John decides, pushing his fingers deeper and harder into Nate’s body: slow, but steady. Noting the way Nate’s already stuttered breathing catches completely and turns into a soft, helpless _ahhhhhhh._ His dick, already twitching against John’s leg, starts getting hard fast enough that even John’s as startled as he is totally unsurprised.

 

This is John’s Vaultie—his sunshine— _his Nate . . ._ so, _of course_. Of course, Nate’s getting hard off experiencing dismaying and intense pain, resulting from being fucked with no prep, no slick, and no holds barred.

 

The sun had set in the west today, and whatever day tomorrow is, is likely to end with a ‘Y.’

 

And, as usual, any efforts by John to . . . _out-pain_ Nate and his unquenchable need—especially in an attempt to get him to use a stimpak when he’s clearly determined not to—is a losing battle, if not exactly a thankless task.

 

There’re abundant examples and proof of precisely this fact throughout their sex-life—and this moment is merely the latest. Only . . . it feels like it isn’t. Not quite. Around John and on top of him, Nate’s body tremors between tense and strung, and fluid and boneless. He rocks his now fully-hard dick against John’s thigh, like his hunger and thirst is hurting him far more than being torn and untreated.

 

“ _Johnny_ ,” he grits, harsh and growling again, licking, nuzzling, kissing, and nibbling at John’s neck and jaw. Swearing, John steels himself against temptation. _One of them_ has to be the sane one in this relationship, and _Nate’s_ sure not trying to abdicate a responsibility he’s never even bothered to shoulder.

 

“You either use a stimpak now or learn to live without dick until I think you’re healed. Or for however long it takes you to scare-up Kent-fucking-Connolly, from here.”

 

“ _Damnit, John!_ ” That voice is half-growl, half-whine, all-plea, now. John pulls his fingers out most of the way—more than enough to make Nate squirm for fullness and prostate stimulation that John’s adept at giving . . . and also adept at withholding, when he wants to be. And when Nate _needs_ him to be.

 

“I’ll gladly make ya come till ya black-out, sunshine— _y’know_ I can and will. But _only after_ you use a stimpak to heal-up. You’re torn and still bleeding. Y’ain’t just hurtin’, you’re _harmed_.” John silently accepts the responsibility for that, since expecting _Nate_ to avoid serious harm and damage is like expecting a kid to avoid candy and shiny-things. But he promises to himself to do better next time, and tries not to feel _too_ guilty, since that won’t help either of them at all. “The stimpak is nonnegotiable, Nathan. Deal with it.”

 

Nate huffs, sullen and brief, then sits up a bit to reach over John, for the _right_ -side night table. After some flapping and flailing, he gets the drawer open. A glance at the jumbled contents shows four stimpaks inside, as well as two injectable courses of RadAway, and plenty of Med-X and Daytripper. There’re some mellow-making smokeables, too, none of which are cigs, and six inhalers of Jet and/or Jetfuel (all for John, since Nate hates and won’t touch Jet, period, with a ten-foot laser musket).

 

No speed or hard uppers, though. Not that either of them needs to be partaking.

 

Nate singlehandedly opens and efficiently prepares the stimpak syringe, grumbling the whole time. He starts to press the needle to the side of his left thigh . . . then he shoves the syringe (business-side turned away) at John’s right hand, sitting up to smirk at him. He’s sultry and sexy and _fucking gorgeous_ . . . but his eyes are still so tired and lost and frustrated.

 

“Why don’t _you_ do the honors, Citizen John, since you’re so insistent. And since we _both_ enjoy it when you penetrate me with foreign objects,” he husks, near-growling again as he leans back in to nuzzle John’s neck.

 

Kissing Nate’s temple with tender, aching reverence, John administers the dose while pushing the first fingers of his left hand as deep as they can go. Then he tosses away the finished stimpak and brushes Nate’s hair away from his brow for several feather-light kisses. Nate murmurs appreciatively, then needily as John finger-fucks him steady and slow.

 

Then, with increasing speed and force as Nate squirms and heals around his fingers.

 

The _sounds_ Nate makes while John massages, presses, tickles, and teases his spot are indescribable. The flutter of still-healing flesh is both strange and wonderful around John’s fingers . . . then the hot-tight, clasping vise that is Nate’s fully-healed muscles is both command and benediction. The pleasure inherent to that is accompanied and amplified by Nate’s talented, dedicated hand on John’s dick.

 

At the moment, _John’s_ not _fully_ hard again—not so quickly, while still in the aftermath of his own near-death-by-deathclaw—but he’s far from _soft_.

 

“Fuck, sunshine,” he exhales, shifting hips and pelvis to meet Nate’s stroking. “Wanna ride me again? Give that stimpak some _real_ work to do?”

 

“Hmmm . . . _wanna_ be on my stomach, pinned to the bed, with my wrists bound, my mouth gagged, and my face pushed into the mattress a _lot_. I want bruises and scratches, aches and reminders that _linger_. I wanna bleed again, if you’re okay with that . . . though I don’t need to,” Nate drawls, sounding drunk on pleasure and anticipation. On the sinful-sanctified sweetness of memories already made and the edgy-intense thrill of future memories waiting their turn to happen. Then he sighs, wistful, but not regretful. “But later, perhaps? When you’re a bit more . . . healed?”

 

John’s touched, as always, that Nate’s willing to forgo his deepest, most persistent needs—one of them—to give John not only time to heal from his injuries, but time to heal from _Nate’s_ injuries. He hugs his Vaultie closer, humming happily. “Want me at my full strength, do ya?”

 

“I _want_ you to wind up giving me another stimpak by the time you’re done wrecking me—or by the time we can’t get it up, anymore. Maybe . . . maybe I want _you_ to need a stimpak afterwards, too. And not because of some damn twenty-foot, mutant gecko.”

 

“Chameleon, actually. And some . . . other stuff, too . . . don’t ask. But . . . _damn_. That’s . . . ah, fuck. That’s _definitely_ gonna have to be a day or two down the line, love,” John admits apologetically as his still-tired body gets even tireder, at the idea of fucking his sunshine the way he _wants_ to fuck him.

 

Never mind the way _said sunshine_ wants to _be fucked_.

 

Well, all of his body gets tireder, _except_ for his dick, which is always thrilled to stand at attention when Commander Vaultie’s in need.

 

Meanwhile, Nate sighs again, but still doesn’t sound displeased. He sounds . . . happy. And _touched_ , for some reason.

 

“Later, it is. I’ll mark it on my calendar with hearts and stars done in pink Sharpie and gold glitter. For now—” he sits up again to look John in the eyes. He glows and sparkles and shines. “Think you’re up to being my favorite, ghoul-style dildo one more time, tonight? Up to staying hard while I use this _very fine_ cock of yours to wear myself into two or three hours of actual sleep?”

 

John blinks and smirks. “Have I ever said _no_ to that question? Fuck, why’re you even _askin’_ me that, love, when my hand’s gettin’ a cramp and my dick’s gettin’ lonely and cold?”

 

Laughing loud and hard, Nate’s up and astride John in a trice. He grabs at the left-side night-table and retrieves a small jar of what John hopes is slick.

 

It is.

 

And Nate makes liberal use of it, putting on a show of fingering himself open and greasing himself up while he strokes and slicks up John’s dick. Then, he sinks down on John with another of those indescribable sounds—it’s both entreaty and demand—that doesn’t so much as stutter until John’s hilted and is searching for Nate’s spot.

 

When he finds it, Nate’s healed muscles flutter and clutch, take and _keep_ John like they never want to let go.

 

As ever, he and Nate maintain eye-contact while they fuck, for as long as they can. Nate rocks on and rides John’s dick, and John augments Nate’s taking with timed and instinctive thrusts, and grinding. Offers small, but acute and lingering—teasing-torturous—exploration and admiration with his fingers. Nate keens and whimpers when John rubs and tugs on the slippery-hot skin of his taint, then wails and sobs, both begging and grateful, when John plucks at and pinches the stretched-sensitive rim of his asshole.

 

As also seems to be his frequent preference, Nate doesn’t touch his own dick (and won’t unless John directs him to), preferring, instead, to get off on John’s dick, hand, or mouth, or not at all.

 

It’s _never_ been _not at all_. And John won’t ever let it be.

 

This evening doesn’t—nor do any of the other ones waiting ahead—see that trend as likely to change.

 

When Nate’s shuddering, intense orgasm takes both their bodies by storm—complete with shouts, moans, whimpers, and John’s name uttered as prayer, talisman, and victorious claim—John gazes and yearns, with awe and gratitude. . . .

 

Until Nate demands the complete participation of John’s body and soul, by dragging them into a freight-train climax that feels like it might not leave anything standing for a twenty-mile radius. Or breathing. Or existing.

 

It’s basically business, as beautifully, perfectly usual, and yet, John doesn’t take it for granted. He refuses to now, or ever.

 

When the ‘O’ erases him, it does so by his own reaffirmed choice. And John Hancock saunters into sweet oblivion happily, willingly, and with Nate by his side.

 

 

**Epilogue: Two Soulmarks**

 

The sky and atmosphere are still purple, but now, it’s tinted rose and gold where Earth and sky try to meet.

 

John’s been awake for a little while—Nate’s tall-strong body is once again tinyed-up against John’s left side, so that he feels half his actual size—since just as the horizon began to lighten. That rose-and-gold is now a third of the way up the sky and some damned, early-ass bird with far too much pep is getting a leg-up on the morning.

 

“I can practically hear you mentally shivving that poor bird to death,” Nate hums, soft and amused. John chuckles, knowing that if Nate had slept at all last night, he’d likely been up again not long after midnight, then lain wakeful . . . listening to the rest of the world dream and recharge, ever since. As he almost always winds up doing.

 

“I’ll bet that yappy, little feathered fuck cooks-up just like pigeon.”

 

Nate guffaws once, _hard_ , before replying. “Doesn’t everything?” He quakes with silent, but deepening laughter.

 

“Nah. If ya season it up _real_ good and put in some effort, it might taste like homemade radrat fricassee. Only not as gamy.”

 

“Spoken like a true fine-dining connoisseur.” Nate is still quaking and his voice is uneven with suppressed amusement. “So, apparently _I’m_ gonna be the morning-person in this relationship. . . ?”

 

“There were doubts about that?”

 

“Well. I just didn’t wanna assume, is all. Or volunteer. . . .” Nate snorts. “But it appears I’ve been drafted, anyway.”

 

“Them’s the breaks, pretty baby. It’s a harsh, cruel wasteland.”

 

Nate snorts again and sits up, solemn-faced and bracing himself on his right elbow. He studies John’s face before brushing callused, but tender fingertips along John’s cheek and across his mouth. He then follows that same trail with his lips, bestowing feather-light kisses that John simply basks in, rather than rushing to match or return.

 

Though, eventually, he can’t not kiss his sunshine back: deep, slow, and true. And for as long as said sunshine wants.

 

Which is long enough for most of the purple in the sky to be chased back west.

 

“Hi, Johnny,” Nate murmurs breathlessly when he ends the kiss. Their arms are around each other and their legs tangled together. Nate’s eyes are tired, but happy, and John sighs, feeling pretty damn happy, too. He kisses Nate’s forehead, inhaling deeper than and past the expected scents of his hair—fall and firepower—until he catches hints of elusive bitter and sweet that are just _Nate_.

 

“Hey-hey, Nate,” he whispers around a throat full of joy and tears. Full of his heart. Full of _everything_ he’ll _always_ feel for Nate, and with increasing intensity over time. Full of words that will never, _never_ be enough, and so John’ll just have to keep making do with anything he’s got to give. Luckily, _anything_ is his specialty, and his middle name. “ _Damn_ , I _missed you_ , sunshine. What’s good?”

 

With a sudden and strangely fearful head-shake and a titanic shudder, Nate crumples—goes tiny again in John’s arms, still shaking, and soon gasping, too. That goes on for a _while_ , with John simply holding and _holding_ his Vaultie, despite a jumble of worries and questions. He restrains himself and uses his inadequate words strictly for reassuring and comforting Nate, while kissing any of Nate’s face his lips can reach.

 

Finally, Nate manages to get himself under control again, though he hardly seems _calmed_. He’s fairly thrumming with agitation and anxiety.

 

“I missed how _w-warm_ you are,” he admits huskily, but small and scared, as if afraid that warmth—that _John_ will be snatched from his arms for presuming to mention it. “I don’t think I’ve been warm since just before Concord. And I was almost cold _forever._ A-Almost lost _everything_ that _means_ everything . . . fucking _Concord_. . . !”

 

“It’s okay, love. I’m here. I’m listenin’ and I _love_ you. No matter what. And it’ll be okay,” John promises when Nate doesn’t speak again for more than a minute, only tries to measure his breathing with limited success. He can’t help but keep in mind what Wyatt Sturges said about Nate unraveling and revealing some of his history and layers in his own time and over time. But John’s also starting to sense the timeframe in which that happens might not be as long as either he or Wyatt had been assuming. “Fuck, brother, us ghouls got rads to _spare_. If you keep holdin’ onto me like _this_ , soon, _you’ll_ never be chilly again, either.”

 

“Sounds pretty-damn-good, t’me.” Nathan draws a slow, measured breath that shakes and catches. “I _saved_ you. _I_ saved you.”

 

“Yup. You’re a sexy, badass motherfucker— _my_ sexy, badass motherfucker—and you _saved me_. And I _love you_ so damn much . . . always will. No matter what, I’ll _never_ choose different. Not ever. And I’ll keep tellin’ ya, till ya sew my damn mouth shut to stop me,” John whispers on the high, narrow bridge of Nate’s nose. He can’t imagine a world in which he could or would have _ever_ chosen differently than the improbable and impossible man in his arms, and he doesn’t _want_ to imagine that world.

 

Nate’s left hand comes up to cup John’s right cheek, then he sits up and braces on his elbow again, to look into John’s eyes like before. _His_ are red and unshielded and completely miserable.

 

“Can I . . . can I tell you something? _Show you_ something?” he amends, hesitant and hopeless. John frowns and tilts Nate’s face back up toward his own, when Nate looks down and away. His Vaultie is normally a man of bottomless bravery and proactive courage, but that often rueful and hard-won steel is clearly faltering, now. It’s a couple silent minutes before Nate can make eye-contact again, and when he does, John tilts Nate’s face up a bit more by the chin and lays a tender, barely-there kiss on lips that immediately start to tremble.

 

“You can tell me and show me _anything_ , pretty-eyes,” John promises, leaning their foreheads together. Nate exhales, slow and shaky, and nods. After taking a few equally shaking breaths in, he leans back and holds up his left hand, as if offering it to John. His gaze is steady and intent on John’s face, while John’s is questioning and curious on Nate’s hand.

 

Finally, John blinks, then blinks again when he realizes that Nate’s wrist is bare of any sort of gauntlet or obscuring accessory.

 

And it has been since John opened his eyes the previous evening.

 

“Ahhhh,” he begins, suddenly nervous and frozen—kind of terrified, actually, as he leans back a bit and averts his eyes from the back of Nate’s hand and wrist. Though, from this angle, neither offers a view of what John might not have and may never have a right to see, choices chosen, or not. “Sunshine, listen. . . .”

 

“May I show you?” Nate asks again, obviously scared, too, but resolved and earnest, under a mountain of fears. As if he’s uncertain of everything _but_ what he’s about to show John. Once again, John’s Vaultie is _fierce and true_ in every way that John’s been utterly lost to since nearly the beginning. In ways that _no one else has_ ever approached regarding consistency, intensity, or fidelity . . . not even Martha McDonough.

 

In the face of that, of Nate at his most trusting and most given-over—at his _most_ vulnerable and most _powerful_ —John can do nothing else, but nod and promise: “Yes. _Anything, love_.”

 

Nate smiles a little, though it quickly droops. His eyes are bright and shiny-wet as he clenches his hand for a moment, then turns it so John can see the palm. See the inner-side of the pale-copper band of skin where a makeshift-gauntlet once sat. See, for the first time, Nate’s pulse beating strong and steady as it winds through the truth of his soul.

 

A truth John girds himself to read and then, once finished, he reads again and again obsessively, while every one of his pieces of girding and armor fall right-the-fuck-off. He’s quite unable to stop himself from rereading, until Nate speaks again.

 

“A-Are you . . . angry with me?” he asks into a few loaded minutes of gobsmacked silence.

 

John has barely blinked, let alone looked away from the twenty-one literally fateful words on Nate’s wrist. Three lines of eight, nine, then four, respectively . . . branded by Fate or Destiny or God or the Universe or the _Perverse_ , on the wrist of the only man John’s ever loved.

 

Nate’s gaze drops again when John’s meets it, wide-open and incredulous. “I . . . I understand if you’re angry . . . and _hurt_. I shoulda shown you sooner. You have and had every right to _know_ —you almost _died_ without knowing. With me _lying to us both_ —supposedly because I didn’t want to influence your choice, when, really . . . I was just a selfish-fucking-coward. But I know that sometimes, people feel like all the soulmate stuff’s just a fancy-fake shanghai by a bastard of a universe. That all it means is being forced into forever with someone they’d maybe _never_ have chosen, otherwise. And I. . . .” he swallows, then looks down again, his face stony, grim, and markedly pale under that copper-tone complexion. “I couldn’t bear it if _you_ felt that way about _me_. Not when I love you more than anything, no matter _what_ my fucking _wrist_ has to say about the matter. And, shit, I didn’t even think I _had_ a soul until I found myself tossing it onto the _all-of-me_ pile that I’ll _never not_ lay at your feet with every bit of hope in me. But now, the only thing that would hurt worse than you m-maybe not choosing me of your own informed volition would be . . . would be if that choice had been taken from you and _I’d_ knowingly, willfully had a hand in that. You deserve _better_. Better than _I’ll_ ever amount to, but certainly better than _that_.”

 

Nate chuckles, licks his lips nervously, and swallows. Then chuckles again, bitter and angry and sad. “If an informed choice is the only worthwhile thing I can give you, and that’ll prove to you how much I love, respect, and _revere_ you, then that’s what I’ll give. _What I’m giving_ . . . maybe without joy or satisfaction, but without reserve or regret, too. And _with all my h-heart_ . . . and my highest hopes and best wishes for you, as always.”

 

John’s still gaping, his mind still attempting to process but getting precisely _no_ and _where_. Well, not quite. His brain and memory banks are actually working overtime, reaching back and back and _back_ . . . back to his and Nate’s first night together. To right after their first _time_ together.

 

To the Daytripper-hazy, slow-sweet-psychedelic afterglow, in which John’d eventually tried to light himself and Nathan Redcastle cigs, with hands that’d been trembling and near-impossible to captain. All of him had still been _tingling and shaking_ , and in the foothills of the most awesome, epic first-time-fuck and post-fuck-bask he’d ever experienced. Epic _beyond_ common descriptors, really.

 

 _Surely_ , he and Redcastle had magically created some sort of divine, _first-time-fuck luck_ that’d been far more powerful than the usual lucky, one night-stand mojo some people made together.

 

Unlikely to repeat, but no less remarkable for being such a damned _epic_ fluke. . . .

 

John’d finally gotten both cigarettes—one at either corner of his kiss-sore mouth—lit, then puffed on them for a few seconds. Then, he’d looked over at Redcastle, who’d been lying on his stomach, one arm thrown over John’s waist, with his face still buried in John’s pillow: basically where and as he’d collapsed when he’d finished coming. John had followed him down, but kept fucking him, then blown his own load like a rocket shooting to the moon. Then he’d collapsed right on top of the Vaultie. But once he’d returned to himself a little, he’d pulled out and rolled off, to muffled, drifting-soft protests from Redcastle, that had warmed him more than rads, for some reason.

 

In the afterglow of all that epic and awesome, John’d taken a final puff off their cigs, then had reached over and smacked Redcastle’s ass rather harder than he would’ve done with any other guy—hard enough that Redcastle’d probably wound up with a bruise for a day or two. But John’d been fairly sure that Redcastle _kinda liked_ the rough stuff. And then some. And even if he hadn’t liked it after all, he _also_ hadn’t struck John as a shy violet, too afraid to speak his mind about his kinks and their boundaries.

 

“C’mon, roll over, Vaultie. ‘Fore I smoke your cig away,” John’d mumbled around the coffin-nails. Redcastle had grumbled, more than half-drowsing, but obeyed, turning onto his side and curling closer to John’s body with a petulant huff.

 

“I don’ smoke. ’S bad,” he’d said, pouting as he reached up to take the closer cigarette. Then he’d leaned in to plant a poorly-aimed kiss on the spot from which he’d taken it. The kiss had instead landed near John’s left lack-of-nostril, and he’d snorted.

 

“I don’t smoke, either, brother. It’s a _filthy_ -fucking-habit,” he’d agreed, puffing away, mellow and sated.

 

Redcastle had curled up against him even more and smoked _his_ cig as easily as John had smoked his: _Not_ like someone who _don’ smoke_.

 

When both their cigs had finally been ashtray-memories discarded in the chipped, ancient coffee mug John kept for that purpose, Redcastle had sighed contentedly and sprawled half on top of John like a big, presumptuous cat claiming its favorite spot. Both amused and endeared—and maybe some other moods that’d had to do with the fizzy warmth in his chest, and all the sappy-weird stuff he’d said and promised to Redcastle while wearing that tight, greedy ass _out_ —John had settled into the surely unconscious claim. He’d wrapped his arms around the sleepy Vaultie and kissed his crazy-messy hair. It’d smelled like green-things and gunmetal.

 

“You’re _amaaaazing_ , Johnny. Like . . . like an ombré from midnight indigo to watercolor violet . . . but, like, lavender is your center, and you always find your way back there. Back to the best, most perfect and beautiful color _ever_ ,” Redcastle had mumbled and mused, settling bonelessly against a mystified John. Almost as if trying to melt into him. “And you make me _feeeeeel_ like [opus sevennny-two in E minor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vJpAIOFN5WQ). When I see you, _my heart_ is all those quavering triplets and duplets. . . .”

 

Redcastle hadn’t finished his rambling—had perhaps fallen asleep, or so John had thought. Which’d been just as well, since the other man had been making even less sense than none. So, John’d clutched the Vaultie as close as possible, kissing his gunmetal-and-green scented hair again, then closed his eyes to see _auroras_ in jumbled and confused, but trippy-happy shades of purple. Even prettier than what had been on his ceiling all night, and way less bossy.

 

“Huh. We are _so-fuckin’-high_ , brother,” he’d noted out loud, giggling and trying to label the many shades. Since he hadn’t known all their proper names, though, he’d settled on _people_ -names, like Kevin and Beverly, Edna and Hamish. He’d _even_ named one dark-horse hue _Fahrenheit_. Because, so-fucking- _what_ if that quiet shade of mulberry-maroon’s namesake _hadn’t ever_ been that color of joy?

 

She’d _deserved_ to be and hopefully _would be_. Someday. . . .

 

Redcastle had startled John out of his own drift-y musings with a haughty chortle-snort, then sat up just enough to give him a loopy, adoring, but tartly _back-sass_ kind of look.

 

“ ** _Well_** ,” he’d enunciated, while conveying that he was both utterly rational _and_ totally blasted out of his ever-lovin’-bean, “ **we’re damn-sure not _low_ , Johnny.**”

 

 _Ohhhh_ , John had thought into a complete and perfect silence of his entire being. Then: _Huh._ Here _he is. After all this time. And he’s not terrible, either. Not_ at all _. He’s. . . ._

 

But then Redcastle had started giggling, too. Then they’d _both_ been chortling and wheezing and guffawing. Then kissing and groping and humping their way to another epic ‘O.’ One that’d been dry and almost _agonizing_ to their overused bodies and sensitized-scorched nerve-endings . . . but absolutely, primally _perfect_.

 

They’d passed right-the-fuck-out immediately after it—with Redcastle still giggling occasionally as he’d started to snore—and John’d woken up the next afternoon feeling like a billion caps. Redcastle had been long-since gone by the time John’d opened his eyes, but that hadn’t been worrisome or even disappointing. For some reason, he’d known their paths would cross again. Even if that took some time.

 

John Hancock had certainly recognized a _To Be Continued_ when he’d shared an epic fuck with _and_ an epic sleep next to one. The night prior had been the start of something _damned_ intriguing. And starts that singular always seemed to have a way of following through . . . to some end or other. . . .

 

John had been eager and buoyed about finding out what that end might be . . . assuming that an _ending_ had turned out to be inevitable. . . .

 

 _Now_ , as John tries to decide if he’s recalling a wish or an actual memory—and if the latter, how much of it is accurate and how much warped by too much Daytripper, by too much sweet, epic afterglow synergy, and by too much time passing—Nate searches his eyes, then smiles, crooked and pained. Despairing. But his nod is brusque and resolved.

 

“Choosing freely and being freely chosen means more to me—and to _you_ , I know—than being tied-to or tied- _down_ by superstitious bullshit on someone’s body. Even if the body is one’s own. My damn phrase never even _mattered_ to me, until. . . .” he mutters, then purses his lips for a few moments. “Anyway. I _chose_ you and what’s on my wrist has never and _will never_ have any say in that. But your mileage may vary. And if it does—if I have to _lie_ to keep you, then maybe I don’t really have you at all. Or shouldn’t.”

 

What finally kicks John’s still-rebooting-brain into full start-up is Nate pulling away. Turning away. Sitting up with hunched-in shoulders and hanging head, shell-shocked demeanor and druggy-slow movements.

 

Nonetheless, Nate’s almost struggled his jerky-graceless way to his feet before John grabs him and tugs him back down. Pulls him close and clutches him tight. Nate doesn’t fight the embrace but doesn’t relax into it either.

 

“I love you,” John says, and Nate shudders. “Since night-one, Nate, I’ve loved you.”

 

“I shoulda _told_ you. I was scared . . . _so scared_ . . . but that’s no excuse. I shoulda _told you_.”

 

“You just did.”

 

“Shoulda told you _sooner_.”

 

“I’m guessin’ it wasn’t the easiest thing to say, sunshine,” John allows, tender and gentle, warm and understanding. All of those things, forever and ever, and in infinite capacity. _Always_ , for Nate Redcastle. “And it’s not like you waited forty years, love. It hasn’t even been two weeks.”

 

“Almost sixteen days,” Nate corrects glumly, quietly, but also while letting himself lean back into John reluctantly. “Concord was nearly ten days ago. You nearly _died_ just _ten_ —”

 

John hugs Nate tight-tight-tight before he can force himself to finish the sentence. “I love you, Vaultie. More than ever. More than _anything_.”

 

“I do bad things when I have nothing left to lose. But sometimes, I do _worse_ things when I have _everything_ to lose.” Nate swallows several times, so hard, John can hear the tick of his throat. “I nearly did one of those worse-things to _you_. As much as having you love even just whatever bits of decency and humanity I can mimic once meant to me . . . being or becoming the kind of person you’d _truly love and want to love_ means more. Maybe it wouldn’t have, even a day ago. But eventually, I figure out the important stuff.” Another sad huff. “My learning-curve is dishearteningly steep, however.”

 

“Learnin’ stuff’s hard, tirin’ work, yeah.” John tugs and urges Nate to get fully back in bed. With half-hearted reticence, Nate swings his long legs up and in, until they’re close to John’s. Then, with barely any urging at all, he curls all of him up against John, making himself tinier than ever. He presses his face to John’s shoulder and clings.

 

“I’m _sorry_ , Johnny.”

 

“Nothin’ to _be sorry for_ , love, but I forgive you anyway. _You deserve that_ —deserve patience and understanding and _time_ to figure out how to be a good person in all the ways you forgot, or . . . or maybe never had a chance to learn. You deserve kindness.” John runs his fingers through Nate’s grown-out, matte-dark hair and cradles the curve of his head lovingly. “I _admire_ that you’re tryin’ so hard to be a good man. And I _adore you_ for tryin’ for _my sake_ for so long, till you understood enough to do it for _your own sake_ , too.”

 

“It doesn’t mean _anything_ ,” Nate insists, and John knows what that _anything_ means without doubt or question. But Nate clarifies, anyway. “The damn soulphrase. Or it doesn’t have to. You _have_ a choice, John. You _always_ have a choice.”

 

“That, I do,” John acknowledges, hugging Nate close, then reaching for his left hand. His left wrist. He reads the words marked thereon, then grins. Brings those words to his lips to kiss them with reverence and relief, and lingers for the strong, steady, reassuring throb of Nate’s tenacious life running through them. “You gave me my choice and I just made it. For now, and for _all_ the nows I care to foresee. Deal with it, Vaultie.”

 

Nate huffs, then shivers. Then snorts.

 

“Wow. Med-X really _is_ the good shit. I thought Sturges was just talkin’ out of his ass.”

 

“He seems like the type, so he probably was.” John chuckles and sighs, ready to settle-in for another nice, long nap with his sunshine at his side. “But this time, his ass just so happened to be _right_. This time.”

 

Nate giggles, water-logged and slightly giddy, and relaxes suddenly and utterly in John’s arms. John, for his part, keeps holding onto him tight-tight-tight, with no intention of ever letting go. With former abstracts like _love_ and _fate_ and _forever_ , turning concrete, then _adamant_ in his mind and in his heart.

 

As they lazily shift into their usual sleeping positions, he silently mouths to himself the now-memorized, sienna-toned phrase hallowed on Nate’s wrist in spiky-rushed characters—not unlike John’s own handwriting. He tells them to himself and to Nate like a story, until they’re both floating out to the dream-ocean . . . toward the map edges and whatever adventures lie beyond:

 

**_I vowed I would never be silent again,_ **

**_and never stand by and watch as evil won._ **

**_Not ever, ever again._ **

 

 

Fate and destiny and soulbonding can take all the credit they choose to, John decides. As long as _he_ gets to keep choosing Nate—and Nate keeps choosing him right back—everything else will fall into place.

 

In time and over time. 

 

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? _Toldja_ this was the last chapter ;-D

**Author's Note:**

> **Credits :**
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> [Fallout Wikia](http://fallout.wikia.com/wiki/Fallout_Wiki)
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> This [cutscene video](https://youtu.be/UT0cyTMHKVU) for dialogue
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> [This walkthrough of the ‘Out of Time’ and ‘When Freedom Calls’ quests](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q9S06HLLz1U) for dialogue and deets (which I’ve tweaked a LOT)
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> The Fallout Wiki entries for: ‘[Out of Time](http://fallout.wikia.com/wiki/Out_of_Time)’ and ‘[When Freedom Calls](http://fallout.wikia.com/wiki/When_Freedom_Calls),’ respectively.
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> [thegrumblingirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrumblingirl), [littleleotas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleleotas), and [oneshycrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneshycrow) for all the amazing and generous feedback and concrit that kept this train-wreck somewhat on track. Anything good in this fic can be traced directly to at least one of them and possibly all three simultaneously. Thanks, you guys :-*
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> **Powered by :**
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> [Fear and Loathing in the Commonwealth: The Playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLlp-TNYE4qQUN3oVB1cGzWWFDRfscHCld)
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> This fic has been positively transformative and such a wonderful learning experience in so many ways--all of them feedback and concrit-related. This fic has been a no-lose scenario for me because of you.
> 
> [Take a little Tumble off the cliff](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com). . . .


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